Skip to main content

Full text of "Wild Jack; or, The stolen child: and other stories. Including the celebrated Magnolia leaves"

See other formats






^ON cmcyCi^i^G 


Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 

in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis IVIembers and Sloan Foundation 










126 CHESTXUli STREffiT. ^ 


Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 


in the Clerk's Ofl5ce of the District Court of the United States, in and for 

the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 























*' Think not the heart in ebon mould 
To nature's softest touch is cold, 
Or that the negro's skin contains 
No bright or animated veins, 
Where, though no blush its course betrays, 
The blood in all its wildness plays." 

<' We might call this Elliottville/' said Mrs. Elliott to her 
husband, as they wandered about the grounds of the habitation 
which he had just rented, and which were beautiful in vernal 
bloom. " I have counted at least several houses in this single 
green enclosure.''^ 

" Each about as large as a humming bird's nest," answered 
her husband laughingly. "^ This white building, with green 
blinds and broad piazza, is our parlour. The one on the right, 
with low, slanting roof, containing three rooms, will accom- 
modate us with a sitting room, dormitory, and refreshment 
room. Yonder, under the shade of the chestnut boughs, is 
my library, and study. Every building has its appropriate 
office ; and dotting, as they do, this smooth green sward, have 
quite a novel and picturesque effect.'^ 

" What a singular taste the architect must have had V said 
the lady. "These little cabins remind me of a watering 
place, and far down in that wild-looking glen, behind the 
2 * (17) 


buildings, I hear the murniur of a gushing spring. How 
charming ! But there is a house quite remote from this 
cluster, embosomed in a grove of young oaks. It looks as if 
it might be a chapel, from its devout, sequestered appearance.^' 

*' You can convert it into one, if you please. But here 
comes our darling Bessy. She will revive here in this pure, 
sweet air. It is almost like living in the country." 

A young black girl approached, bearing in her arras an 
infant of about nine months old. The child was exceedingly 
fair and delicate, and the clear blue of the heavens was painted 
on the mirror of its soft, smiling eyes. It was lovely, but 
wanted the rosy charm of health, the spring, the bound that 
belongs to vigorous infancy. The child seemed to have in- 
herited from its mother, extreme delicacy of constitution, for 
Mrs. Elliott's cheek was pale as the white rose she had just 
gathered, and her figure was slender, even to fragility. 

" Have you succeeded in your search ?" she asked in a 
tremulous voice, of her husband, casting a tearful glance at 
little Bessy, who, now seated on the grass, by her sable attend- 
ant, looked round with a pleased and wondering expression. 

"I have;'' he replied, '^ and think you will be perfectly 
satisfied. She is a young mulatto woman, of the name of 
Dilsy, with a little boy, about one year old. She is free, and 
lives by herself, taking in sewing and washing. Her husband 
is dead, and there seems to be no obstacle to her accepting the 
situation in our family you are anxious to have filled." 

" I cannot bear the idea of her having a coloured nurse,'^ 
said the mother, gazing anxiously on the sweet pale infant 
playing in the grass, " but I would make any sacrifice for our 
mutual health. I should like to see this woman." 

" Yonder she comes now, leading her little boy," exclaimed 
Mr. Elliott, pointing towards the gate. " I told her to come 
immediately, thinking she would recommend herself better 
than I could do it for her." 

" She has a very prepossessing countenance," said Mrs. 
Elliott, watching with interest the advancing figure of Dilsy. 
" I think I could trust her." 

Dilsy walked slowly, accommodating her movements to those 
of her little boy, who waded through the long grass by her 
side, his black, woolly head popping up and down, with mar- 
vellous quickness, as if his journey were more upward than 
onward. Dilsy was tall and well formed, and moved with the 
native grace of an African. Her complexion was a clear 


golden brown, and, what was very remarkable in one of her 
colonr, her lips had a tinge of redness which beautified her 
whole face. She wore a party-coloured handkerchief round her 
head, but her hair was visible below it, and the crispy wool of 
the African was straightened and burnished in her, into Indian 
glossiness and length. She had an indolent, reposing counte- 
nance, exceedingly pleasant and rather handsome. Though, 
as we have said, her own complexion had a bright golden tint, 
the child whom she led by the hand, was as black as ebony. 
The white of his eyes and the ivory of his teeth gleamed daz- 
zingly from the little shining, sable face they enlivened. His 
very short frock exhibited to the fullest advantage his round, 
glossy, and well proportioned limbs. As he came .near, he 
broke from his mother's hand, and began to make somersets 
in the grass, with inconceivable rapidity, and to the delight 
of little Bessy, who clapped her waxen hands and laughed 

"Behave yourself, Jim !" said his mother; but he was too 
much engaged in his antics to heed her rebuke, and Mrs. 
Elliott told her to let the children amuse themselves, while 
she questioned her on the subject nearest her heart. ' Her own 
health, and that of her infant, were so feeble that the physician 
had urged upon her the necessity of transferring her child to 
another nurse, as the only means of restoring either. Mr. 
Elliott had been for some time in search of a proper person, 
when Dilsy was recommended, who seemed to possess every 
necessary qualification. 

"■ We can give her the chapel for her room," said Mrs. 
Elliott ; and Dilsy and little Jim took possession of the cabin, 
shaded by young oaks, and the little fragile Bessy soon de- 
rived health and strength from the veins of the handsome 

The only objection Mrs. Elliott could make to Dilsy was, 
that she seemed deficient in sensibility. She never lavished 
on Bessy any of those endearing caresses which negro nurses 
usually bestow on their masters' children, thus breaking 
down, as it were, the dark wall that separates the races from 
each other. She was kind and attentive to her charge, but as 
soon as she had fulfilled her duty, she would transfer it with- 
out any demonstration of afi"ection to its other nurse, and 
occupy herself calmly with her accustomed work. Neither 
did she manifest any tenderness for her own child. She took 
great pride in dressing him neatly, and when the ladies, who 

20 WILD jack; or, 

visited Mrs. Elliott, noticed the boy, praising his intelligence 
and sprightliness, she would look pleased, but she was singu- 
larly undemonstrative ; and it is not strange that Mrs. Elliott, 
whose heart was always gushing forth in the warmest expres- 
sions of love to her child, should think Dilsy cold and un- 

'' Do you love Jim ?" asked she of her one day. 

" Yes, mistress. To be sure I does. He's my own child, 
and I'm obliged to love him." 

" But you are not very fond of children, are you ?" 

" I never cares about hugging and kissing ^em as some does. 
I thinks and feels though, and would do as much to keep 
harm from 'em, as anybody else." 

This was a great deal for the quiet mulatto to say. She 
was that rare, and some believe fabulous character — a silent 

Spring, summer, and autumn glided away, and little Bessy 
frolicked with Jim about the beautiful green enclosure, the 
picture of rosy health, as she was of angel loveliness. Jim 
had grown wonderfully. He was stout, strong, and brave 
as a little lion, and as full of mischief and pranks as a 
monkey.' He could jabber and dance for the entertainment 
of Mrs. Elliott's guests, and cut more capers for the amuse- 
ment of Bessy than necromancer ever taught. 

Dilsy's mission was ended, for Bessy, as the cooler season 
advanced, was gradually withdrawn from her nursing cares. 
Mrs. Elliott, however, who had become attached to her, in 
spite of her cool, unimpassioned manners, gave her permission 
to remain in the chapel (as she always called the shade-em- 
bosomed cabin), and continue her usual occupations. 

There was a young man of about twenty, whose father re- 
sided somewhere in the vicinity, but who was seldom seen at 
home. Indeed, he seemed to live on horseback, dashing 
about on a wild, 'black horse, that no one could venture to 
ride but himself. His name was John Grreen, but he was 
known only by the appellation of Wild Jack. Wherever he 
went the sound of clattering hoofs preceded him — a cloud of 
dust followed. " Get out of the way — Wild Jack's coming," 
was the cry of the children in the street, as they scampered 
towards the fence. In short, he was the wild huntsman of the 
country, and as he passed along, like a swift dark cloud, a 
thrill of admiration was always excited by his matchless horse- 
manship. It was said he lived by gambling, for he was never 


seen to work, yet the glitter of silver sparkled tlirough tlie 
meshes of his purse, and its clinking made constant music in 
the bar-room. 

One evening, as Wild Jack was riding rather more slowly 
than usual along a back road that wound round the grounds 
of Mr. Elliott, he caught a glimpse of little Jim, perched on 
the top of the fence, laughing and clapping his hands, at the 
sight of the black steed, and its shining, flowing mane. Jack 
reined in his horse and rode directly up to the fence where 
the child was seated. 

'* Here, jump on to my saddle, and I'll teach you how to ride, 
you little black rascal,'' exclaimed the horseman, leaning for- 
ward, seizing the child by the arm and swinging him in front 
of himself, as if he had no more weight than a feather. 

"Me feard," said the child, shrinking from the fierce, 
bright eyes of Jack, that ran up and down his plump little 
body, like live balls. It was strange for him to express fear. 

'' Yo2c afraid ! why I took you for a man. TU bring you 
back directly." 

Away he flew, and little Jim forgot his terrors in the de- 
light of motion, and the charm of novelty. Up hill and down 
hill they went, over fields and creeks, and it was not till the 
gray of evening began to darken the glow of sunset, that the 
little equestrian returned to the shades of the chapel. Pilsy 
stood at the fence calling her truant boy, whose absence she 
had just discovered. 

" Here I be, mammy," cried little Jim in a tone of exult- 
ation, holding up a large paper of candy, with which the 
liberality of Wild Jack had supplied him. 

" You've got the smartest little fellow here I ever saw," 
said Jack, giving the child a swing into his mother's arms. 
" I'm going to make a first-rate horseman of him. Don't you 
want to ride again, you young harlequin ?" 

" Yes," answered the delighted child, sucking a long stick 
of red candy, the seal of his friendly compact with the for- 
midable Jack. 

Dilsy was flattered by his notice of her child, and when, 
evening after evening, he disappeared with the flying horse- 
man, she quietly awaited his return, without any misgivings 
or apprehensions. As for little Jim, he conceived a most ex- 
traordinary and passionate love for Wild Jack. For hours 
before his coming, he would mount the fence and strain his 
eyeballs and bend his ear, for the dusty cloud and clattering 

22 WILD jack; OR; 

hoofs he so much loved to greet. Dilsy became more and 
more reconciled to his new passion, as it kept him still several 
hours on the top of the fence^ instead of gamboling about in 
her way, as he formerly did. 

Once Jim was gone longer than usual. It grew quite dark, 
and yet his little woolly head was not seen peeping in at the 
door, nor was his childish voice heard exclaiming as usual — 
4 ^' Me come back, mammy.^^ 

f Dilsy had worked hard during the day, and was sitting by 
a warm, bright, lightwood fire. It had been a clear frosty 
day, and the contrast of the cold, bracing atmosphere abroad, 
and the glowing heat within, disposed her to a kind of lux- 
urious drowsiness. The negro sleeps as comfortably and 
sweetly in a split-bottomed chair, as on a downy bed, and 
Dilsy closed her weary eyes, and slept in happy unconscious- 
ness of the prolonged absence of her child. 

That night, before Mrs. Elliott retired to rest, she stood by 
the couch of her sleeping infant, gazing with a mother's joy 
and gratitude on its round, roseate cheek, and white, dimpled 
arms. She compared its present appearance of health and 
strength with its former waxen paleness and extreme fragility, 
and her heart swelled with emotions of thankfulness to Dilsy, 
who had been the instrument, in the hands of God, of her 
darling's restoration. 

''■ Look at her,'^ she cried, turning to her husband, while 
she shaded back the soft fl.axen hair from Bessy's snowy fore- 
head. "■ How sweet, how placid, how well she looks ! That 
was a blessed day you brought Dilsy to me. Had it not been 
for her, I do not think Bessy could have survived the summer 
months. She really is a treasure. I feel as if I wanted to 
do something to prove my gratitude to her." 

" Why, you are proving it all the time, my dear. Not a day 
passes that is not crowned by some act of loving kindness on 
your part, towards this clever mulatto. I am sure lier lines 
have fallen in pleasant places. You make almost as great a 
pet of Jim as you do of Bessy. Is that fine dress for him ?" 
pointing to a gay tunic of brilliant scarlet, trimmed rather fan- 
tastically with black. 

" Yes. I long for the morrow to come, to see him dressed 
in this suit. The bright red will set off so well his jetty skin. 
I really think the boy is handsome — he is so black and shin- 
ing and has such an intelligent, merry face. I always won- 
dered his mother did not show more fondness for him — her 


only child, too. I do not think she has much sensibility, but 
a great deal of principle. '^ 

" All mothers are not as foolish as you are, my dear," said 
he with an affectionate smile ; and Mrs. Elliott felt, though he 
called her foolish, he did not condemn her folly. She fell 
asleep with the vision of little Jim, arrayed in his scarlet 
clothes, dancing before her eyes. 

She was awakened by a cry so loud, so thrilling, that it 
seemed as if something sharp was stabbing her ears. It broke 
on the silence of night with terrible distinctness, and sounded 
like the wail of a breaking heart. 

" Grood heavens !'^ exclaimed Mrs. Elliott, starting from 
her pillow, " what cry is that ? It is in our own yard." 

Mr. Elliott sprang from the bed and hastily dressing him- 
self opened the door, letting in as he did so a whole flood of 
moonlight. Mrs. Elliott rose also, trembling with terror, and 
wrapping herself in a large woollen shawl, followed her hus- 
band into the piazza. The cry arose again more distinctly. 
It came nearer, and the words — 

" My child ! my child ! They've stolen my child !" were 
audible amid shrieks of agony. 

" It's Dilsy !" cried Mrs. Elliott. " Oh ! husband, what is 
the matter ? See her — running up and down the yard. Call 
her, for mercy's sake^ and find what she means." 

While she was speaking, Dilsy came rushing to the gate, 
looking like a distracted creature, with her hair loosely flying, 
tossing her arms wildly above her head. 

" My child !" she shrieked. " Master — mistress — they've 
stole him. I never see him no more." 

Here she wrung her hands, and, bursting afresh into an ex- 
ceeding loud and bitter cry, was about to run off towards the 
street, when Mr. Elliott caught her by the arm and forced 
her into the house. 

'' Let go !" she cried frantically. " Wild Jack's got him — 
he never brought him back — he never will bring him back 

The truth flashed upon Mr. Elliott's mind. He had seen 
Jim before sunset, mounted in front of the Wild Huntsman, 
and from Dilsy's broken exclamations, he learned how long 
he had been gone, how she had awakened out of a long, deep 
sleep, seated by the cabin's hearth, and how she remembered 
waiting there for her boy, and wondering that he did not 
come. She sought him and called him, till she was hoarse — 

24 WILD jack; or, 

sought him in every nook and corner of the cabin, shaking 
the bed clothes as if he were a needle or a pin, that could be 
hidden in their seams — then seizing a torch, forgetful of the 
moonlight, and swinging it above her head, rushed to the * 
wood-pile, and hurled the sticks in the air, sometimes imagin- 
ing the end of a blackened pine knot the head of her missing 
child. At length came the horrible conviction that he was 
stolen, carried ofF, to be sold to the slave-trader, and the cry ^ 
which had banished the slumbers of Mrs. Elliott, was wrung 
from a mother's breaking heart. 

All that kindness and sympathy could do, was done by Mrs. ' 
Elliott, to soothe and comfort the poor, half-distracted Dilsy. 
The household was roused, a warm fire kindled, and warm 
covering wrapped round her chilled and shivering limbs. But 
Dilsy refused to be comforted. The sensibility that had been 
sleeping in the bottom of her heart, gushed out in an over- 
whelming stream. Nor was it sorrow alone that stirred the 
before unsounded depths of her soul. The thirst of vengeance 
mingled with the yearnings of affection, and infused wormwood 
and gall into the flowing brine. She threw herself on the , 
floor, and tore her long Indian tresses, calling on her Jim, 
her baby, her child, in the most piteous and heart-rending 

" I accused her of not feeling/' thought Mrs. Elliott, wiping 
away her own fast falling tears. " Ah ! how little we know 
of what is passing in the heart. Poor creature — what can I 
do to comfort her r"' 

" I will go over this moment and see the President,'^ ex- 
claimed Mr. Elliott. " The villain must be pursued and 
overtaken. Be quiet, Dilsy — you shall have your boy again — 
we'll see about it." 

" Grod Almighty bless you, master — will you ? God bless 
you — will you, master ?" cried Dilsy, springing up from the 
floor and shaking back her dishevelled hair, her eyes glittering 
with excitement. " I thought nobody care for little negro — 
free, too. Oh, Lordy ! Jimmy — little Jimmy I S'pose he 
come back again V 

Covering her face with her hands, she burst into an hys- 
terical laugh, and picking up a white muslin apron of little 
Bessy's that had fallen upon the floor, began to wipe her eyes 
with it, without knowing what she was doing. In the mean 
time, Mr. Elliott, burning with indignation for the outrage 
on the poor mulatto, walked over, in the dead of nighi as it 


was, to the President's mansion, whicli was not far from his 
own. He was one of the Professors of the University, which 
was situated on the beautifal hill, near which he resided ; and 
when the President was roused from his slumbers by the voice 
of Mr. Elliott, he naturally concluded that the students had 
been detected in some midnight depredation. He was a man 
of surpassing benevolence of character, united to a stern and 
inflexible sense of justice. He entered warmly into Mr. El- 
liott's plans for the recovery of the child, and proposed that 
emissaries should be despatched on the three roads, which led 
from the hill, in pursuit of the robber and his prey, promising 
to bear his part of the expense, and pledging himself for the 
other members of the faculty. Early the next morning, three 
men, hired by the President and professors, started in three 
different directions, for the purpose of tracking the human 

It has been said that self-interest alone prompts the white 
man to be kind to the negro race — that he feeds, and clothes, 
and warms him, because he is his own property, and he him- 
self would suffer, if his slave were neglected or wronged. This 
may be the case in some instances, but it certainly was not in 
this. Here was a poor, humble, unprotected mulatto, a free 
woman, with a free child. She enriched no one, she belonged 
to no one ; her child was her own property, and its loss im- 
poverished no one but herself. And yet, in defence of this 
woman's rights, for the recovery of her stolen boy, were en- 
listed the sympathies and influence of the dignified President 
of a celebrated University, and its intelligent and learned 
professors. Was this self-interest ? No, it was divine philan- 
thropy ; it was the acknowledgment of that bond which unites 
the great brotherhood of mankind, and which is drawn closer 
and closer by misfortunes and wrongs. Dilsy and her child 
were of the lowly African race, and yet how many hearts were 
now throbbing in unison with hers ; how many prayers were 
ascending to heaven for the recovery of her child ! 

26 WILD jack; or, 


** God help me, in my grievous need ; 
God help me, in my inward pain, 
Which cannot ask for pity's meed ; 
Which has no license to complain ; 
Which must be borne, yet who can bear 
Hours long, days long, a constant weight, 
The yoke of absolute despair, 
A suffering wholly desolate ?" 

Two weary days passed away, and no tidings of the lost 
child. The wild agony of the mother had settled down into a 
kind of stupor, the result of despair. Mrs. Elliott kept her 
in the house, and, by giving little Bessy entirely to her charge, 
tried to interest her feelings and divert her attention from her 
own sorrows. She did this in kindness, but perhaps it was 
an error in judgment, for the sight of the beautiful child, 
blooming in the security of home, reminded her only more 
vividly of her own wandering boy. She would sit for hours, 
gazing with a dull, vague look, on the little scarlet dress, so 
fancifully margined with jetty braid, hanging conspicuously 
on the wall. 

" Some how or other, mistress/' she said mournfully, " that 
looks just like Jim's shroud. To look at it long, it turns all 
over black." 

" You will see little Jimmy wear it before long," replied 
Mrs. Elliott, kindly. " When so many are interested in his 
recovery, it is almost impossible that he should not be found." 

" Oh, mistress, that black horse goes like the wind. No- 
body could catch him. 'Taint like other horses. O dear ! 
Lord ! how I wish I'd never let Jimmy get up with that awful 

The second night one of the men returned, weary, and un- 
successful. He had perceived no trace of the fugitives, and, 
convinced they must have taken some other route, thought it 
best to return. The next morning the other two also came 
back, but without the child. One of them, however, imparted 
information of great interest. He had followed in the track 
of a young man, mounted on a fiery black horse, who had 
been seen at early dawn, riding along, with a little child be- 


fore liim. The description corresponded exactly to Wild Jack, 
and the man was sure of overtaking the robber, but he soon 
came where four roads met, and knew not which way to turn. 
In his perplexity, he suffered one of the superstitions of his 
childhood to guide him, and he directed his course to the 
rising sun. In the course of the day he heard of a slave- 
trader, who had passed that way with a large number of slaves, 
and among them was a little boy, of the age of Jim, who was 
represented, like him, to be black as polished ebony. There 
was no doubt that Wild Jack had had an understanding with 
the man, and sold to him the stolen child. 

The emissary, who was not a bold man, thought not of con- 
tending with one of these desperate characters, but imme- 
diately turned his face homeward, to communicate the facts 
which had come to his knowledge. 

Dark were the clouds that now gathered round the fate of 
little Jim. While the man was returning, he was borne still 
further from them, on a wild, unfrequented road, and perhaps 
even then he was transferred to some other master, who might 
be bearing him away on the wings of the morning. 

Mr. Elliott sat with the President in his office, with an 
anxious and troubled countenance. While they were engaged 
in earnest conversation on the subject, the door opened, and 
Mr. G-reen, the father of Wild Jack, was announced. 

He was a meek, sorrowful-looking man, with a stooping 
frame and downcast countenance. One might look in vain in 
his pale, dim eyes, thin cheeks, and melancholy mouth, for 
any resemblance to the bright, fierce, wicked face of Wild 

There was something in his appearance that appealed irre- 
sistibly to the compassionate feelings of the gentlemen; and 
the President, moved by commiseration, as well as by habitual 
politeness, addressed him kindly, and offered him a seat, by 
the ample and blazing fire. But he would not be seated. He 
stood with his hat crushed between his knees, with an expres- 
sion of conscious unworthiness, and the worn and crushed hat 
seemed a meet emblem of his crushed and grief-worn heart. 
The father of a wicked, law-defying son,, whom he had in vain 
endeavoured to '' train up in the way he should go,^' must feel 
abject and wretched. 

"Are there any tidings of your son, sir?" asked the Presi- 
dent, breaking the silence, which began to be irksome. 

"I've heard of the lost child, sir," he replied meekly, 


" and I've come to tell you that if you'll stop the search after 
him, he shall be brought back day after to-morrow nigbt. 
Yes, sir, I'll swear oa the Bible, if you say so, that what I 
say is the truth." 

The gentlemen looked at each other in surprise. They 
knew but little of Mr. Grreen, and, judging of him by the cha- 
racter of his son, as people are apt to do, imagined him to be 
a man with very dim perceptions of right and wrong. He 
was considered a poor man, owning a small farm and a few 
negroes, whose work he shared while he superintended their 
labours. Jack was his only son, whose birth and his mother's 
death were simultaneous events. Poor Jack ! had he ever 
known a mother's restraining influence and tender watchful- 
ness, his evil propensities would never have acquired their 
present rank and poisonous luxuriance. 

" This is very strange," said the President, fixing his eyes 
sternly on his agitated and working features. " Am I to con- 
sider you an accomplice with your son in this felonious act V 

The poor man looked up to heaven with an humble, depre- 
catino; air, and the President felt somethinfy knockins; against 
his heart, painfully and reproachfully. He had no son of his 
own, but he could comprehend what were a father's feelings, 
and he knew those of a man. 

"I didn't c-ome here to criminate or defend myself, sir; 
neither did I come to defend my son. It wouldn't do any 
good, if I did, for you all know him. I don't pretend to 
deny that he's carried oflF the child. I know if he's taken, his 
life will be forfeited. But I don't think he can be. He's got 
a way that nobody ever had before. I sometimes think an 
evil spirit is in him — but he is my son, for all that — all that 
I've got in the world. He's bone of my bone, and flesh of 
my flesh, given me by his mother, now in heaven. You can't 
catch Jack, but you can keep him from coming near me as 
long as I live. You will advertise him and set a price on his 
head, and it will be all right," 

" To be sure, it will," interrupted the President emphati- 
cally, and Mr. Elliott's clear eye pronounced amen. 

'-'■ You can do it," continued Mr. G-reen, " but with all that, 
it is very doubtful whether you ever see him or the boy 
either. But I promise you solemnly, gentlemen, if you'll all 
keep quiet and say nothing, that day after to morrow night, 
at about midnight, the child shall be in front of Mr. Porter's 


tavern. If lie's not there, you may take me, put me in jail, 
and hang me in place of my son/' 

There was an air of such earnestness and sincerity about the 
man, combined with such profound melancholy, that they were 
both deeply impressed. They were beginning to be convinced 
of the hopelessness of pursuit, and were ready to listen to any 
proposition which reason might sanction and justice approve. 

'' If we put faith in your promises and suspend our present 
efforts," said the President, whose inflexible justice upbraided 
him for a too easy surrender of his judgment, "and your son 
should appear again in our midst, we cannot suffer so danger- 
ous an individual to be at large. The law must claim its 

" He never shall appear among you. He never again shall 
disturb the peace of this community. We will both seek a 
home remote from this, where, I trust, he will begin a new 
and better life." 

" Well, then," said the President, looking at Mr. Elliott. 

Mr. Elliott bowed his head in token of assent, and Mr. 
Green was assured that on the faith of his promise, they would 
suspend the pursuit and wait the coming of the child. ^ 

" I pray you," said Mr. Green in departing, " not to allow 
a crowd to collect round the tavern. Let the mother be there 
waiting, but say nothing to anybody else. If anything hap- 
pens to keep the child, you will find me at my farm, ready to 
give myself into your hands, for imprisonment or death." 

It is not strange that Dilsy should not believe the promise 
of Mr. Green, or that she should consider her boy as lost for 
ever. Two more long, weary days were to pass, before the 
appointed hour, in heart sickness and anguish. She could not 
sit still, but wandered like a restless ghost about the grounds, 
with little Bessy warmly clasped in her arms, who would fix ' 
her soft blue eyes in mute wonder on her dark, despairing 
countenance, and sometimes wipe away a large tear from the 
mulatto's cheek, with her snow-white, dimpled hand. She 
would stand at the gate, and look up and down the road, till 
her strained and dazzled glance could see nothing in the 
bright sunshine, but a painful glitter, obscure as darkness. 

" You are wrong to give up to despair, Dilsy," said Mrs. 
Elliott, " when so much has been done for you. You've told 
me sometimes that you had no friends — that a poor, free 
mulatto couldn't have any. You see you are mistaken. If 
my Bessy was stolen away, there could not be more active 

30 WILD jack; or, 

measures taken to restore her to my arms. You must not be 
ungrateful, Dilsy/^ 

" I don't mean to be, mistress — you're too good. I knows 
it — I feels it — but I can't talk. Ah, mistress, nobody would 
think of stealiDg your baby. Nobody would hui/ a white 

A flush passed over Mrs. Elliott's white cheek, as she re- 
plied — 

"White children are sometimes stolen, as many a weepiug 
mother can bear witness. But it is not often the case in this 
country. But, Dilsy, Mr. Elliott firmly believes Mr, Grreen's 
promise, and is sure that Jimmy will come back again. You 
should put trust in God, if not in man, for his promise never 

" I can't think of any promise to comfort me/' said the poor 

" He suffers not a sparrow to fall to the ground without his 
knowledge, and He feedeth the young ravens when they cry." 

" That may mean little Jimmy. He's black like the 
raven," said Bilsy, thoughtfully, "and he's got nobody to feed 
him now if God don't." 

She brought the white muslin apron of Bessy's which she 
had moistened with tears on the night of Jimmy's abduction, 
and presented it, nicely washed and starched, to Mrs. Elliott. 

" Beg pardon, mistress," said she. " I didn't know nothing 
of what I was doing, or I wouldn't have used it so." 

" You have not hurt it, Dilsy. A mother's tears are sacred. 
Keep it, and when Jimmy comes back you must dress him in 
the scarlet tunic, and this pretty apron, and carry him round 
as a show-boy. They who sow in tears shall reap in joy, 

As the night appointed for the child's restoration drew on, 
Mr. Elliott himself lost his sanguine hopes, and became anx- 
ious and restless. He feared that he had been duped by the 
elder Green, who had probably had recourse to a stratagem, 
to gain time for his son's escape from justice. He thought 
,he would feel very foolish to wait half the night, as he in- 
tended to do, at the tavern, for the fulfilment of a solemn 
promise, and then find'he had been bafilcd and deceived. 

It would be better, perhaps, to let Bilsy go alone, for, should 
his doubts be confirmed, he could not bear to witness her grief 
and despair. Yet, when night came on, an irresistible impulse 
urged him to the spot, where a crowd was already assembled, 


and among them was the grave and reverend President, This 
gathering was " not in the bond,'^ for secrecy had been en- 
joined, but Dilsy could not keep her own counsel. Her heart 
was too full not to overflow, and the curiosity of the whole 
neighbourhood was excited by the information. 

The President was obliged to make a long harangue before 
he could induce the people to condense themselves within 
doors, so as not to frighten away the being, whoever it might 
be, whose mission it was to restore the stolen child. His 
words had the desired effect, and Dilsy was left alone in the 
piazza, counting each moment of the waning hours by the 
quick beatings of her throbbing heart. Mr. Elliott had lent 
her his large, warm cloak, to wrap around her, for the night 
air was cold and frosty. She did not feel it, however, so great 
was the tension of her mind. If she walked the length of the 
piazza once, she did hundreds of times, while the big tavern 
clock, that great auctioneer of time, kept ringing with its iron 
tongue, '' going, going, gone.^^ Yes ! the hours were going, 
slowly, but surely. Ten, eleven — twelve was near at hand. 

It was a clear, cloudless night. The moon shone with the 
pallid glory peculiar to a Southern wintry night, as sweetly 
and calmly as if there were no scenes of rapine and anguish 
passing beneath her holy beams. Large pine-fires were blazing 
in the chimneys, throwing a red glare upon the window panes, 
and lighting up, with more than noonday brightness, the pro- 
miscuous groups within. It was strange to see the majestic 
President and dignified professors in such company, especially 
at that unwonted hour. It must have been a strong motive 
to induce them to leave their families and homes during the 
silent watches of the night — to haunt a tavern, too — such 
sober, pious men, as they were : and this motive was the 
restitution of the wrongs of a poor mulatto, the restoration of 
a little negro boy. Verily, there is some humanity, some 
Christian benevolence, at the South, notwithstanding the 
strenuous efforts to prove the contrary. 

Hark ! the clock strikes twelve — that is the appointed hour. 
Yes ! just at twelve, said the elder Green, the boy should be 
returned. The people rushed to the doors and windows, and 
would have passed into the street had they not been restrained 
by the commanding voice of the President. 

Dilsy pressed forward, and winding one arm around a pillar 
of the piazza, for she felt suddenly very weak, leaned out into 
the moonbeams, that burnished with silver her golden-coloured 

32 WILD jack; or, 

forehead. All was still abroad ; not an evergreen leaf qui- 
vered in the frosty atmosphere. The road was white and 
sandy, and had a ghost-like look, stretching on, long and 
winding, into the dark pine woods. 

Dilsy stood panting against the pillar, when suddenly her 
eyes kindled with revengeful fire. " It was all a base sham ; 
they never were going to bring him back ; Master Elliott 
knew it all the time ; they were all making a fool of her ; 
there was no truth in white folks, not one of them." While 
these dark, vindictive thoughts, rolled through her mind, she 
heard the distant sound of something, she scarcely knew what. 
The soil was too sandy, along the road that ran along in front 
of the tavern, for hoofs to clatter, but still she knew that a 
horseman was approaching. A black speck seemed to be 
driven swiftly along over sandy waves ; it grew larger and 
larger, came swifter and swifter, till the outlines of Wild Jack 
and his black horse were distinctly visible ; and perched in 
front of him was a little child, as black as a starless midnight. 
Dilsy gave a sharp, loud shriek, and sprang, with one bound, 
down the steps. The people rushed after her with considerable 
vehemence. Whirling the child by one arm from the saddle 
to the ground, AVild Jack dashed his spurs into his horse's 
flanks, and went off with the speed of the whirlwind. One 
might as well think of overtaking the whirlwind, as this fierce, 
wild youth. A yell, loud as an Indian warwhoop, rent the 
silence, and some plunged into the sand, in a vain efi"ort of 

'' Oh ! Jimmy, Jimmy !" exclaimed his mother, snatching 
up the shivering child, and folding him in her cloak — " is it 

"Yes, it's me, mammy,'^ answered a little, weak voice. 
The mulatto burst into tears. Those little, feeble accents 
told a tale of suffering and privation. 

" Bring him in, bring him in to the fire," cried many 
voices, and Dilsy, staggering like a drunken woman, made her 
way through the crowd in the door-way and sunk down on a 
seat near the fire. 

Poor little Jimmy did indeed look as if he had endured 
sufferings, which he was too young to relate. His round fat 
cheeks were thin and hollow, and his bright eyes had a dim, 
strange, bewildered look, that it was painful to witness. The 
back part of his dress was all worn to tatters, and his woolly 
head was all bristling with burs and tangled with leaves. He 


was as cold as an icicle^ and when brought near the hot blaze, 
he began to cry bitterly. 

" Remove farther from the fire — it makes his numb 
limbs ache/' said Mr. Elliott ', " he must be warmed gradu- 

Had Jimmy been a young prince, instead of an unowned 
negro child, he could not have been treated with more 
kindness and consideration. He had warm milk and nice 
warm buttered biscuit brought him to eat, and warm flannel 
rolled around him, till the painful, bewildered expression of 
his face changed to one of dreamy satisfaction. They began 
to question him, but all he could answer was — " Don't know." 
His dawning faculties seemed obscured by the fright and suf- 
ferings of the few past days. He soon fell asleep in his 
mother's arms, that soft cradle from which the poor little fel- 
low had been so cruelly torn away. 

Dilsy's softened heart was now overflowing with gratitude to 
the white friends who had exerted themselves so energetically 
in her cause. She was ashamed of her hard, vindictive feel- 
ings, and inwardly resolved never again to cherish them. She 
had a good deal of the Indian in her nature, as was indicated 
by her straight, shining hair. She was quick to resent qvA 
slow to forgive an injury, but the remembrance of blestin^s 
conferred was lasting as life. 

Mrs. Elliott wept with joy, when her husband returned ac- 
companied by the reunited mother and child, and then she 
wept with grief over his forlorn and altered appearance. Such 
a long and terrible journey on horseback, as he must have 
had with Wild Jack, was enough to kill an older child. 
Little Jimmy must have been made of tough materials, not 
to have been shaken and battered to pieces. His flesh was sore 
and bruised, and in many places his dusky skin was lacerated 
and worn off. But kind hands anointed him, and the wounds 
of a child's body are healed almost as soon as those of his 
heart. After a day's rest and nursing, he was bright enough 
to be arrayed in the dazzling scarlet suit and white muslin 
apron. The apron did not look quite in place, but Dilsy said 
she loved it better than anything she had, and she wouldn't 
have him leave it off for anything. Jimmy looked really quite 
magnificent in his royal-hued rairaent, and as all the burs 
were picked out of his head, and his cheeks were already be- 
ginning to round themselves, '^ little Richard was himself 

34 WILD jack; or, the s^bolen child. 

. Dilsy carried him from house to house, in triumph, while 
a younger nurse toted the fair blue-eyed Bessy, who was only 
a satellite to the primary planet Jim, on this memorable oc- 
casion ; Jimmy was emphatically the young Lion of the day, 
and great regret was expressed that he could not relate his 
adventures. At first, all he could say was^ " I don't know.'' 
Now his invariable answer to every question was, " Wild 
Jack." That fierce, bright image was for ever darting across 
his little mind, and for a time it seemed doubtful whether any 
other would ever be imprinted there. 

The ladies loaded him with presents, and if Dilsy had suf- 
fered much, she also rejoiced much, and in consequence loved 
much. She was certainly better and happier after this event 
than before. She had cherished the idea that nobody cared 
anything about her or hers. Even the kindness of Mrs. 
Elliott she thought selfish, because she was necessary to her 
child. Now, she acknowledged the existence of disinterested 
benevolence, and her heart warmed and expanded under its 
genial influence. 

The history of Jim, during bis days of absence, was never 
known. It was conjectured that Mr. Grreen had bought him 
back from the trader to whom his son had sold him, at the 
sacrifice of his little farm and possessions ; for they were all 
sold, and the master departed to some unknown regions, 
probably accompanied by his reprobate son. 

The wild equestrian was never again seen, flying along on 
his raven steed, after he had darkened for a moment the 
moonlight night we have described. Whether he has re- 
pented of his evil ways, or keeps rushing on the downward 
road that leads to death, we have never learned. 

The following summer little Jim was playing blithely on 
the green by the side of the blue-eyed Bessy. He seemed to 
have forgotten Wild Jack ; yet if a horse came galloping by, 
he would jump up and run to his mother, and bury his face in 
her lap. 

There is no romance in the story of Jimmy, but there is 
truth, without any alloy of fiction. We have related it, as one 
of many instances of Southern kindness and humanity to a 
lowly race — whose feelings the Southron is too often accused 
of disregarding and trampling under foot. 



" ! what a pure and sacred thing 
Is beauty, curtained from the sight 
Of the gross world, illumining 
One only mansion with her light ! 
Unseen by man's disturbing eye. 
The flower that blooms beneath the sea, 
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie 
Hid in more chaste obscurity." — Moore. 

" I AM SO thirsty, brother. I must liave some of the water 
gushing from that spring. Oh ! it looks so cool and inviting." 

Thus exclaimed Bell Raymond, to her brother Frank, rein- 
ing in her horse as she spoke. They were both on horseback, 
having taken a long jaunt into the country, to visit some 
friends ; and now on their homeward way, Bell began to be a 
little weary, and very thirsty, and very warm. She caught 
sight of a silver, singing spring, flashing through a little 
thicket of shrubbery, and nothing would serve but a draught 
of the sparkling water. 

" We have no cup," said Frank. 

" You can make one of oak leaves." 

" I see a nice little cottage, a few yards ahead, where we can 
borrow a drinking utensil. Who knows but there is some 
sweet little country lassie there — a rose in the wilderness ? 
Shall I go?" 

'' Yes ; but I will accompany you," said Bell, springing 
from her horse, and gathering up her riding dress with an im- 
patient gesture. 

" I do despise these long, sweeping skirts," said she, tossing 
the folds over her left arm ; " they are so wretchedly in one's 

'' But they are so graceful, Bell." 



^^ What's the use of being graceful, with no one to admire 
me, but a brother ?'' said she, laughing. 

While thej were talking, they were getting near the cot- 
tage, which, though a rough, unpainted, low and time-worn 
building, had still an air of neatness and comfort, and even 
taste was not wanting — for there were vines trained to shade 
the low windows, and flowerpots were placed against the wall. 

" There she is, by all that is charming !" whispered Frank, 
as a young girl of apparently seventeen or eighteen summers, 
came to the door, with a very bright blush, and very sweet 
smile, and a very low curtsy, and asked them to walk in. 
She looked bashful and embarrassed, but not awkwardly so, 
and though her dress was of plain domestic, it fitted so per- 
fectly to her lithe and slender figure, one would hardly wish 
it exchanged for silk or muslin. A knot of pink ribbon, that 
fastened her hair behind, relieved the plainness of her attire, 
and matched the roses of her slightly sun-burned cheek. 

Bell, to the surprise of her brother, instead of asking for a 
cup, accepted the invitation to walk in, and followed the young 
cottager through a narrow passage, into the plainest, most 
primitive-looking apartment she had ever entered. Frank, de- 
lighted with an adventure which opened so auspiciously, fol- 
lowed her with a number of superfluous bows, intended no 
doubt to make a favourable impression on the young hostess. 
The furniture consisted of a half-dozen plain chairs, a table of 
stained pine, and an old-fashioned clock, with a moon-face, 
and a startlingly loud tick. The chimney was ornamented 
with fresh, odorous pine-boughs, and some beautiful wild 
flowers adorned the mantelpiece. But a still greater orna- 
ment appeared in the shape of books, arranged on a shelf, 
on the right of the fire-place, and which Frank's quick e^^e 
detected the moment he entered the room. 

" I fear we intrude," said Bell, seating herself at the same 
time, with a very-much-at-home air; "but we called to beg a 
cup, to dip water from your beautiful spring. I have been 
riding so far, and am so very thirsty — then it is so insuffer- 
ably warm V 

Untying the ribbons that fastened her plumed riding-cap, 
she threw it upon the next chair, and shook her beautiful hair 
back from her moist forehead. 

" Really, Bell, you do make yourself very much at home,'^ 
exclaimed her brother. " One would think you were prepar- 
ing to stay hours instead of moments." 

" I would net eare how long I stayed," replied she, looking 


eagerly round her. " This is such a cool, shady, quiet spot 
— I am perfectly in love with it. But please get me some 
water — that is, if the young lady will be kind enough to lend 
us a cup.'' 

"I will get you some, with pleasure,'^ cried the young girl, 
turning quickly to the door. 

" By no means,'' exclaimed Frank, springing after her. 
'^I cannot allow you to take so much trouble. I am ac- 
customed to wait on my sister, who, I assure you, is a very 
arbitrary young lady," 

^' It is no trouble," said she, quietly gliding between him 
and the door, and stepping across the threshold. 

" Well, let me go and assist you," he cried, with persever- 
ing gallantry, and was about to follow her, when Bell called 
after him : 

^^ Don't, Frank. You embarrass her. She does not wish 
you to go." 

'■'■ Embarrass her ! Why, she has as much self-possession as 
you have, though not half the impudence. Bless you. Bell, 
for being seized with a fit of thirst on this identical spot, and 
for discovering the spring, which entirely escaped my heedless 
eye. But let us peep into those books, and perhaps we can 
find out the name of our bonnie lassie. Well done ! the Lady 
of the Lake, to begin with. There is poetry for you — and 
here's her own sweet name, I am confident — Hose Mayfield. 
Rose, sweet Rose, flower of the wilderness and blossom of the 
vale. Was there ever anything so appropriate ?" 

'•'■ Brother I how foolishly you run on. But she really is 
a nice, pretty girl, and I like her. To think of finding her 
here alone — she must have somebody living with her, surely 
— and these books ! How in the world came she by those 
books ? There are Plutarch's Lives, and Rollin's History, and 
Cowper, and Milton, and Thomson. Bless me, what a classic 
library !" 

" She's coming," exclaimed Frank, glancing from the win- 
dow, " with all the grace of a Hebe, and all the lightness of a 
wood-nymph. She is a perfect fac-simile of the Lady of the 
Lake : 

*' What though no rule of courtly grace 
Has trained her mood to measured pace, 
A step more light, a foot more true, 
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew: 
E'en the light harebell lifts its head, 
Elastic from her airy tread." 


Rose — for sucli was indeed lier name — came in while the 
last line was upon his lips, with a waiter, upon which were 
two tumblers of the clearest and purest crystal. Bell did not 
believe the establishment contained such luxuries. Never did 
water taste so cold and so refreshing. Frank drank it very 
slowly, looking at the Hebe through the bottom of the glass, 
whose irregular surface multiplied her into myriad forms. 

" You are fond of reading, I see,^^ remarked Bell. " You 
have some choice books here." 

*' Yes," answered Rose, ^' I do love reading very much. I 
can hardly dream of a greater pleasure." 

" When I ride this way again I will bring you some books," 
said Frank; "you have probably read all these." 

" Oh ! many times," cried she, so earnestly that she blushed 
at her own warmth. " I believe I know the poems all by 

"Indeed!" exclaimed Bell, ^'how I envy you. I don't 
believe I could repeat six lines to save my existence. I love 
it. It is very sweet. But it is like music. It dies away, 
and you know not whither it is gone. It is so much trouble 
to commit to memory." 

"I never tried to commit it," said Rose. "It stays in my 
memory without my knowing it, and comes back to me when 
I am not seeking to recall it." 

"Do you not teel very lonel}^ here ?" asked Frank, irresist- 
ibly curious to learn something of the inmates of the house- 

" Oh, no !" she answered with animation. " I have not 
time to be lonely during the day, and father is always at home 
in the evening. Besides, there is an old woman in the kitchen 
who takes away the feeling of loneliness." 

" Your father is a — hem — I presume — " cried Frank, allow- 
ing his curiosity to get the advantage of his politeness. "Your 
father's profession takes him much from home, I suppose." 

-" My father is a farmer, sir," she said simply, though a 
smile perceptibly curled her lips. " He goes abroad with the 
rising, and returns with the setting sun." 

" I wish I were a farmer," said Frank, emphatically. "I 
do believe they must be the happiest men in the world." 

" I wish I were a farmer's daughter," said Bell, with a sigh, 
" and lived in such a snug little place as this. It must be so 
nice. But come, brother, our mother will wonder what detains 
us so long." 


Smoothing back her hair, she drew her cap towards her by 
one string, with a jerk that ruJBied the long; sweeping plumes, 
and, swinging it round several times, gave it a toss on her 
head, and, in spite of all, it set there gracefully and becom- 
ingly. Then flirting her riding dress over her arm, she rose, 
and, leaning out of the window, broke off a green twig from 
an acacia tree, whose branches waved against the house. 

'^ What's the use of all those bewitching airs, Bell, when 
there's no one to admire but a brother T' asked Frank, laugh- 

Without noticing him, she turned to Rose, and thanked her 
with smiling grace for her kindness and hospitality, begged 
permission to come and see her again, and left the cottage. 

''I shall not forget the books," said Frank, whose move- 
ments were more tardy. " There are some poets wanting in 
your collection, which I shall be most happy to supply." 

" I thank you," she replied, with a deep blush, "but I do 
not think I ought to trouble you. I could not accept so great 
a favour from a stranger." 

" Let me lend them to you, then. You are not too proud 
to accept so trifling an obligation. You call me a stranger, 
and that reminds me that we have not introduced ourselves 
to you — a most unpardonable omission. Your humble ser- 
vant is ycleped Frank Raymond — my sister. Bell Raymond — 
names, I trust, you will not altogether forget." 

" My name is Rose Mayfield," she replied, with simplicity, 
believing him entirely ignorant of the fact, and aware that 
politeness required of her a reciprocal frankness. 

" I could have sworn it was no other," ejaculated Frank. 
^' It is in vain to say the Rose by any other name would smell 
as sweet." 

" Frank, Frank, you loiterer, come along," exclaimed the 
gay voice of Bell, who had mounted her horse and rode directly 
under the window. As she bent her head and peeped through 
the acacia leaves, which mingled with her plumes and her 
light-brown curls, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief and 
mirth, she made a charming picture, on which Rose gazed 
with delighted admiration. Never had so fair a vision gilded 
their humble cottage. Seldom does one so fair adorn the halis 
of wealth and fashion. Frank watched the countenance of 
Rose. No shade of envy darkened its sunshine. Its expres- 
sion was even rapturous, and yet that rapture was inspired by 


the beauty and elegance of anotherj enhanced by all the 
advantages of dress and embellishment denied to herself 

Again Bell repeated her summons, and Frank was compelled 
to make his parting bow, and though it was one of lowly defer- 
ence, there was no mockery in it, as in his fashionable greeting 

Bell was in high- spirits. Bested from her fatigue, refreshed 
by the pure draughts from the fountain, and delighted with 
her new acquaintance, she rallied Frank without mercy on the 
evident impression which the young cottager had made on his 
imagination, if not his heart. But when, after their return 
home, and in the presence of their high-bred and aristocratic 
mother, she continued her railleries, he did not bear them with 
so good a grace. Mrs. Raymond never moved beyond the 
charmed circle of wealth and fashion, and the idea of her 
children being interested in anything out of their own peculiar 
sphere, was preposterous and degrading. Frank, knowing so 
well her views of society, had warned Bell, previous to their 
arrival, not to shock her prejudices and opinions, but the wilful 
girl disregarded his injunctions, and amused herself by alarming 
her mother's pride — 

" You have no idea how much Frank admired her, mother," 
continued Bell. " He lingered on the threshold long after I 
was mounted for flight, making the prettiest speeches imagin- 
able " 

" Frank Raymond making fine speeches to a coarse, vulgar, 
country girl, must have been a novel spectacle/' exclaimed 
Mrs. Raymond, in a tone of derision. 

'^ Very coarse and vulgar, indeed, mother," repeated Frank, 

" Why, Frank, it is no such thing," interrupted Bell ; " on 
the contrary, she is quite refined and lady-like, and knows 
more poetry by heart than I have ever read. Her hands are 
as small as mine, and almost as white." 

Bell held out a pair of the fairestt hands in the world, all 
sparkling with rings. 

" She had probably been rubbing them with flour," said 
Frank, gravely. " Were they not as hard as boards ?" 

" Oh, no ; quite soft and yielding. You know she said 
there was an old woman in the kitchen who does all the work 
for the faniily— I suppose while she reads poetry and culti- 
vates flowers. I wish I could change places with her a little 
while. She looked so nice and happy." 


" Isabel — Bell," cried Mrs. Raymond, reproachfully, '^ how 
ungrateful in you to breathe such a wish, when you never 
knew a desire that was not gratified ; when you have been the 
most indulged, caressed, and petted of human beings !'' 

'' That is the very reason, my own dear, indulgent mother, 
that I am dissatisfied. If you would only deny me something 
that I want, throw some obstacles in the way of my wishes, 
excite me by opposition, it seems to me I should be a great 
deal happier. Everything is so smooth and monotonous, it is 
impossible to keep ofi" the demon of ennui." 

'' Well, Bell, I will try to gratify you in one respect — by 
forbidding you ever to visit that cottage again, or to renew 
your familiarity with one so much beneath you." 

" But I told her I would call again," said Bell, with ani- 
mation ; " and Frank promised to lend her some books." 

" Frank will do no such thing," cried his mother, haughtily. 
" If he forgets himself so far as to think of cultivating an in- 
timacy so degrading, I shall exercise my maternal authority, 
and treat him as a boy in years, as he seems to be in action." 

" But I am not a boy, mother," cried Frank, gayly, but 
decidedly; "and I think it hard if a young man of three-and- 
twenty cannot be civil to a discreet, well-spoken damsel, with- 
out being scolded, and threatened with the rod of correction." 

" You need not always be telling your age, Frank," said 
the still young-looking and handsome Mrs. Raymond. 

" Please don't call me a boy then, mother." 

Bell was roused to full energy by her mother's unexpected 

" You treat me like a child five years old," said she, pet- 
tishly. " I suppose if I am riding and literally dying of thirst, 
I must not stop to que^h it, and I must repay hospitality 
with rudeness, and politeness with ill-breeding," 

" You know my meaning, Bell ; why do you pervert it so ?" 

" I do not like to be treated like a baby." 

"Did not you ask me to deny you something ?" 

" Yes," answered Bell, laughing at her own waywardness ; 
*'but I did not expect to meet with compliance." 

Bell retired to her chamber, to prepare for an evening 
party, which she had engaged to attend. She said she did 
not wish to go ; that she would not go ; yet she bade her wait- 
ing-maid open her wardrobe, and take out, one by one, her 

beautiful fancy dresses, for inspection. 
4 * 


'^Not that pink gauze. I have been riding in the sun^ and 
look too red for that.'' 

" Oh ! you have such a lovely comj)lexion to-night/' said 
Anna, the young waiting-maid. 

^' Let me see the blue, trimmed with silver." 

" This makes you look so fair," cried the girl, holding up 
the glittering tissue in the glancing light. 

" Put it away -, it is too gaudy ; only fit for an actress. I 
wish I had but one plain, domestic dress, and I would know 
what to wear. I do think this dressing is the most tedious, 
annoying business in the world. Bring me that white gos- 
samer over satin — I will wear nothing but white to-night — no 
jewels. Go into the green-house and gather some white rose- 
buds and geranium leaves. I will wear no other ornaments." 

Bell had a sudden fit of simplicity, and tried to look like a 
simple cottage-maid, in her white robes and natural flowers ; 
and she did look surpassingly lovely ; she was told so at least 
a hundred times in the course of the evening ; but, praises of 
her beauty were so common, she heeded them not. Her in- 
terest was excited by the appearance of a stranger, who, unlike 
most strangers, did not seek an immediate introduction to 
herself, the reigning belle of the season. He stood aloof from 
the crowd which surrounded her, a man of noble person, and 
dark and striking countenance. 

When she first saw him, he was standing by a table looking 
at some engravings, which he appeared to be explaining to a 
lady, who listened with delighted attention. He did not look 
very young, yet no one would think of calling him old. He 
was certainly the most elegant-looking gentleman in the room ; 
and, as time glided on, and he did not approach her to pay 
her the customary tribute of homag* and admiration, she felt 
mortified and disappointed — she was sure he was a distin- 
guished personage. He had such an air of dignity and high- 
breeding, and every one paid him so much deference, and 
seemed so much flattered by his notice. She would not ask 
his name, for she did not like to have it supposed she was 
ignorant of it, but, when her brother came near, she eluded 
her admirers for a few moments, and begged of him to satisfy 
her curiosity. 

" Why, that is Mr. Urvin, just returned from a five years' 
sojourn in Europe, Asia, and Africa, for what I know. They 
call him the distinguished traveller, and he really is a fine- 
looking man, with very elegant and dignified manners." 


^^ I do not see why he should assume such airs^ if he has 
travelled/' said Bell, in a tone of pique. 

'' Ah ! I see how it is/' said Frank, laughing; ^^he has not 
paid tribute to her royal Majesty, the queen of the evening. 
Do not be angry, but I overheard our hostess offer to introduce 
him to you. ' Thank you, madam,' said he, with a sarcastic 
smile,. ' but I always shun a belle.' " 

'' Arrogant !" exclaimed Bell, her cheek flushing brightly 
as she spoke. ^^ I am sure I do not ask or wish his notice. 
He shall rue the day he ever made that speech," she added 
to herself. 

^^ Our little Eose would suit him," whispered Frank. " She 
certainly is prettier than any of the damsels here, making the 
usual exception — and then she has so much heart and soul 
in her face." 

Bell scarcely heard what he said of Rose ; her mind was 
dwelling on the remark of the elegant traveller, whose avoid- 
ance had made the attentions of all others irksome and dis- 
tasteful. Taking the arm of her brother, she walked to the 
opposite side of the room, too much excited to remain in one 

" There he comes," said Frank, in a low voice ; ^^ but, pray, 
don't look so scornful. Let him see how sweet and amiable a 
belle can appear." 

But it was too late. The scornful lip 'had not time to 
smooth itself into a smile before they passed him, and Bell 
could not help giving her ringlets a toss that discomposed her 
white rose-buds, and brought them down, in a fragrant shower, 
at his feet. Stooping down, he gathered them up, and pre- 
sented them to her with a respectful bow. He did not retain 
so much as a geranium leaf, but handed them to her with as 
little sentiment as if it were a bonnet she had dropped, instead 
of flowers. As Bell took them from his hand, she looked up 
and met his eyes. Never had she seen anything so dark, so 
piercing, so brilliant, yet so awe-inspiring, as that single glance. 
With a deeper blush than had ever before dyed her cheek, she 
slightly bowed and passed on. She had prepared a look of 
great indifi'erence, bordering on contempt, but she forgot to 
put it on, and it was well that she did, for it certainly would 
not have increased Mr. Urvin's admiration of helles. 



" Graceful and useful all she does — 
Blessing and blest where'er she goes — 
Pure-bosomed as the watery glass, 
And Heaven reflected in her face." — Cowper. 

" I'm weary of the brilliant hall, 
Where fashion's votaries throng — 
I'm weary of my own vain heart, 
Slave of the world too long." — Anon. - 

Rose Mayfield stood at the door of her' father's cottage, 
watching the setting sun. It was the hour she loved, for she 
knew her father's steps were then bending homeward. Every- 
thing was prepared for his reception — the little table, covered 
with the whitest and smoothest cloth, was spread in a back 
porch ] old Hannah was milking the cow in the barn-yard, 
while the odour of warm bread and steaming meat issued from 
the kitchen. Rose stood, looking toward the corn-field waving 
beyond, but her eye was abstracted, and it was evident that 
her thoughts were gone out on a more distant excursion. She 
was thinking of the fair equestrian and her gallant brother, 
for their visit was an event in her quiet and sequestered life. 
It recalled the associations of her earlier years, and a quick, 
low sigh heaved her bosom. For Rose, though a hard-work- 
iDg farmer's daughter, had passed but a comparatively small 
portion of her life in her present humble home. A brief re- 
view of her childhood will explain the apparent inconsistency 
of her education and position. When she was a little child 
she had the misfortune to lose her mother. Just about the 
time, when the heart-stricken, widowed father, was mourning 
over his own bereavement, and the helplessness of his orphan 
daughter, a lady was thrown from her carriage, almost oppo- 
site the cabin, and brought in for shelter and relief. It was 
weeks before she was able to be removed. In the mean time 
the engaging little Rose twined herself round her childless 
heart, and she entreated the father to allow her to take the 
child home with her, and cherish and educate her as her own. 
It was not without many a hard struggle that Mr. Mayfield 
conquered his reluctance to give up his darling, but he be- 


lieved that Providence had raised up this friend f o her mother- 
less childhood^ and, with mingled gratitude and grief, he 
suffered her to depart. 

Mrs. Chandler resided in a city remote from his little farm, 
and opportunities of intercourse were few and far between. 
In the home of her benefactress and adopted mother, she re- 
ceived those advantages of education which her father could 
never have imparted. Mrs. Chandler was no worldly, fashion- 
able woman ; she was a simple-hearted, high-minded Christian, 
whose influence was as pure, as benign, and as diffusive as 
sunshine. The emanations of her mind and heart were radi- 
ated into the mind and heart of Rose, and beautiful mental and 
moral flowers grew and blossomed, as the result. Sometimes 
Mrs. Chandler had a coadjutor, who took a great interest in 
directing the studies of his sister's protege, and whose influence 
was almost as powerful as her own — a younger brother — a 
man of remarkable depth and reach of mind, as well as be- 
nevolence of feeling. The extreme simplicity, humility, and 
gratitude of the young girl pleased him, united, as they evi- 
dently were, with brilliancy of imagination and vigour of intel- 
lect. Rose looked up to him with admiration and reverence ; 
and when he departed for a foreign land, with the prospect of 
being absent for years, she felt as if a pillar of strength, on 
which she had been leaning, as an anchor to her weakness and 
youth, were suddenly removed. But a far greater misfortune 
was impending over her. Her friend and benefactress was 
taken from her, and the last moments of this noWe and excel- 
lent woman were embittered by the recently -acquired know- 
ledge that the property which she had intended to bequeath 
to her adopted daughter, was no longer hers to bestow. The 
man who had the charge of her business during her brother's 
absence, proved to be a villain, who absconded with the for- 
tune which she believed secure from treachery or loss. Rose 
had never thought of being the heiress of her friend's wealth, 
and, had she been left the inheritance of millions, it would 
not have softened the blow that crushed her to the dust. She 
was just fifteen when she returned to her own humble dwell- 
ing, and the father who welcomed her as an angel of light. 
To say that Rose did not feel the change, that she did not sigh 
for the refined and cultivated society which she had been ac- 
customed to meet at Mrs. Chandler's, that she did not shrink 
from the homely duties that devolved upon her, would be 
false ; but she struggled bravely, heroically, with her repinings, 


and tried to come down gracefully and meekly to the lowly 
realities of her condition. Then it was so ungrateful in her 
to murmur. There was old Hannah in the kitchen, to do all 
the drudgery of the house-work ; she had time to read and 
cultivate all her acquired tastes ; then her father was so good, 
so kind and indulgent, and loved her with such unmeasured 
idolatry, how could she help being happy ? 

Mrs. Chandler had always dressed her with elegant simpli- 
city, and she had returned with an ample wardrobe of her own, 
as well as the gift of her benefactress ; but, with a good sense 
and propriety remarkable in one so young, she felt that such 
dresses were inappropriate to the home she now inhabited ; so 
she made herself garments of plain domestic ; and, when her 
father came in from his daily labour, in his shirt-sleeves, soiled 
perchance, and moist with the dew of toil, she did not shrink 
from his embracing arms, nor fear that her dress would be 
spoiled by the contact. 

She often thought of the brother of her benefactress, won- 
dered if he had returned to his native land, and whether he 
retained any recollection of the little girl he had so kindly 
iDstructed and so wisely counselled. But, as nearly three 
years had passed away, she gave up the hope of beholding 
him again, and feared he had found a grave in a foreign land. 

It is not strange that the sudden appearance of the beautiful 
Bell and her brother should have ruffled the calm and uniform 
surface of her existence, or that the sparkling draught of social 
enjoyment, of which she had just tasted, should have awakened 
a thirst the pure waters of her own fountain could not quench. 

The moment she saw her father she ran to meet him, took 
his straw hat from his hand, and sportively fanned his sun- 
browned face. The smile of grateful and admiring fondness 
with which the weary farmer greeted her, touched her with 
remorse for the vague repinings she was conscious of feeling a 
moment, before. 

" Oh ! dear father,^' . thought she, ^^ let me think more of 
your comfort than of strangers I may never meet again. '^ 

If Frank had thought Hose pretty and graceful, under the 
cloud of embarrassment and constraint that obscured, in some 
measure, her natural attractions, how much more he would 
have admired her, as she flitted round her father, anticipating 
his wants and soothing him with her gentle caresses ! He 
had compared her to the Lady of the Lake, and certainly she 
resembled Ellen in her devotion to her father and the grace 


and tenderness of her filial attentions. While partaking of 
their supper, Rose told him of her visiters, and described, 
with animation, the beauty of Isabel, though she smiled at 
her affectation and caprice. The farmer looked grave when 
she told him of Frank's offer of books, which implied an in- 
tention of renewing his visit. He wanted his Rose to be seen 
and admired, yet he was anxious and troubled lest admiration 
should flow from a doubtful source. He could not bear to 
damp the pleasure with which she evidently dwelt on this 
incident, and he knew the modesty and simplicity of her 
character too well to fear of her being lured by mere fashionable 
graces. It was for her happiness he trembled, and yet how 
could he think of immuring her in perfect solitude, and suffer- 
ing her blooming youth to pass away, like the flower of the 
oasis, unseen and unappreciated ? After the first feeling of 
alarm had subsided, a pure and honest pride in her beauty 
and refinement lighted up his countenance. Perhaps the young 
man was of that noble, hon4)urable class, to which her bene- 
factress had belonged; and, through him. Rose might be re- 
stored to the sphere she w^as born and educated to adorn. 
While these thoughts swelled his bosom, he laid down his 
knife and fork, looked earnestly at Rose, then round the little 
stoup, beneath which they were seated, shook his head, took 
up his knife and fork, and said, almost unconsciously — 

'' Who knows ? Who knows V 

" Who knows what, father T' 

^' But what these young folks may prove very good friends 
to you, after all ?" 

"I hope so,^' replied Rose; ^^and yet I had better not in- 
dulge in hopes that may end in disappointment. It is more 
likely that they may never think of me again, and it is better 
that I banish them from my thoughts.'^ 

This was more easily said than done ; but there is power in 
action, and Rose was superfluously industrious after the supper 
was over. She swept the floor after Hannah, though not a 
particle of dust was left upon it, and wiped over the cups and 
saucers with a dry napkin, though Hannah had made them 
shine with all the lustre of neatness. 

" Are you never going to be ready to sit down to reading ?'' 
said the farmer. '^ What a bustling little body you are to- 
night I" 

" Oh, yes, I am ready now. But let me brush your hair 
first, and smooth this rumpled shirt-collar. You know Tve 


no one to look at but you, and I love dearly to see you looking 
nice and comfortable. Now, take this old arm-chair, and tell 
me what I shall read. Suppose I soothe you with a little 
poetry to-night.^' 

She took down the volume which she had seen in the hands 
of Frank, and began to flutter the leaves. 

" I had rather listen to some of good old Plutarch's Lives. 
They mean something, and give a body something to think 
about afterwards. But, as for poetry, it comes in at one ear 
and goes out of the other. Never mind, please yourself, my 
darling; your voice will make anything pleasant.'' 

Rose immediately exchanged the books, and cheerfully com- 
menced what she had read at least a dozen times. Mr. Mayfield 
sat opposite his daughter, in the old arm-chair, with his hair aa 
sleek and shining as comb and brush could make it, and his 
white shirt collar, relieving the hardy brown of his complexion. 
He sat gazing on his young daughter, whose fair brow was in- 
clined over the book, while hg- rosy cheek rested in the 
hollow of her right hand. Her attitude was graceful, her face 
surpassingly sweet, and her voice was music itself. He gazed 
upon her with a fondness so intense that it deepened into sad- 
ness. She came out in such bright and beautiful relief, in 
that dark cabin, her accents glided so gently into his ear and 
sunk down so meltingly in his heart, that his eyes closed from 
excess of delight, and his ear grew heavy with its weight of 
melody. What a luxury for the toil-worn and weary man to 
leave behind him the labour and dust and burden of his day of 
care, and in the quiet and comfort of his own home to recline 
at ease, and look at and listen to such a daughter ! It is no 
wonder such a state of luxurious content should compose the 
feeling for a deeper calm. 

Rose was reading the history of Pastus and the devoted 
Arria. Her eye kindled and her cheek glowed over the record 
of her self-sacrificing and matchless love. 

'^ Oh ! father," said she, looking up and sufi"ering the book 
to drop upon her lap, " I never, never can be tired of this. It 
is sad, but it awakens such exalted sentiments. I remember 
a beautiful little poem, written on this subject. I think it 
began thus : 

When Arria to her husband gave the sword, 
Which from her chaste and bleeding breast she drew, 
" Take this," she cried — " My Peetus, do not fear 
Sweet is the wound that has been given for you." 


A sudden, loud, nasal sound arrested the poetical reminis- 
cences of Rose. The poor, tired farmer was soothed into a 
deep sleep, and as his head was leaning backward, he was in- 
dulging in a most anti-heroic snore. The enthusiasm of Rose 
gave a quick, painful rebound to her own bosom. She had 
often experienced a similar shock, but never had she felt it so 
acutely. It jarred on every nerve ; she could not help con- 
trasting the discordant notes with the music of Bell's gay 
laugh — the accents of the graceful and gallant Frank. She 
felt more intensely than she had ever done before, the want 
of sympathy, the want of congenial youth and refinement, and 
despised herself for experiencing it. She would not have 
wakened her father for the world, but she went softly behind 
him and insinuated a pillow between his head and the chair, 
thereby closing the open gates from which the sonorous 
breathings came forth. 

Such was the tenor of the life of the young Rose ; one 
evening was the epitome of the next, and the next. How 
different was the lot of the brilliant and capricious Bell ! And 
yet Rose was the happier of the two ; she had a self-sustaining 
principle within ; she looked to Grod above, and then into her 
own pure heart, to see His image there. 

The paths of these two young maidens widely diverged, and 
yet, as they msiy perchance approach more closely, we must 
follow, first one and then the other, in their different orbits. 

Bell had now a new object of interest, that roused her from 
the ennui that so often oppressed. It was singular, but her 
admiration of Mr. Urvin was not diminished by his expressed 
reluctance to her society. It was rather increased. There 
were many moments when she despised herself for being a 
helle, as much as she did the insipid beings who fed her vanity 
with the fuel of adulation — when she felt more than willing to 
barter the incense of the multitude, for the sincere but silent 
homage of one true and noble heart. She wanted something 
to look up to and reverence — something to stir the unsounded 
depths within. She could not reverence her mother, for she 
had no qualities to inspire veneration — she was " of the earth, 
earthy." Frank was too near her own age, too gay and mis- 
chievous, too much on her own level. She could not look up 
to him. But Mr, Urvin ! how high he seemed to tower 
above all surrounding objects ! So lofty, so dignified, with 
eyes so darkly eloquent, and mien so cold, yet so strangely 
attractive ! She had now but one thought, one wish — to over- 


come his prejudices, to conquer his proud reluctance, and to 
triumph at last in the possession of his admiration. 

Mrs. Raymond had an almost insane desire to cultivate the 
acquaintance of foreigners and travellers of distinction. She 
had seen, with pique and resentment, Mr. Urvin's avoidance 
of her daughter, but he was too distinguished to be given up 
without an effort. His reputation for wealth and talents 
threw a dazzling prestige round him, more hallowed in her 
aristocratic eyes than the halo that encircles with golden glory 
the brows of saints and martyrs. She gave a splendid party, 
for the sole purpose of inviting him, and urged Bell to appear 
as simple as possible, in dress and manner. But Bell, with a 
strange caprice, or perhaps from the fear of having her real 
feelings detected, would wear her most glittering attire, and 
instead of flowers, wreathed her brow with costly gems. 
She would not have Mr. Urvin suppose that she wished to 
attract his attention, or gratify his pride by subservience to 
his tastes. Of course, an introduction was unavoidable. It 
was as a helle, she was resolved to triumph — as a conqueror, 
she would bind him in golden chains to her car of victory. 
To his grave, respectful, yet most graceful salutation, she re- 
sponded with those bewitching smiles which others had pro- 
nounced irresistible. To his intelligent, manly, and interesting 
remarks, she replied at first with some of those airy nothings, 
which generally pass for brilliant wit, and had there not been 
something in her clear blue eye that seemed to shame the folly 
of her lips, and had not the roses, coming and going on her 
cheeks, appeared to blush for her affectation, it is probable 
Mr. Urvin would have left her side, with his prejudices 
against belles deepened, instead of being subdued. As it was, 
he felt amused and interested, for there is a charm in youth 
and beauty, after all, to which the gravest philosophers are 
compelled to bow. She questioned him of his travels, and 
while listening to his eloquent description of foreign lands, 
forgot her wish to shine and captivate, and, without knowing 
it, appeared as natural as Kose herself. The influence of a 
commanding mind was upon her, and a charm — a spell un- 
known before — bound her to the spot. She forgot to flirt 
her ringlets with that little sportive motion which had been 
called so graceful. She forgot to pick off, with her white and 
sparkling fingers, the green leaves of her beautiful bouquet, 
or to play a thousand fantastic tricks with her ivory fan. 
She stood an entranced and eager listener, feeling as if the 


doors of her understandmg were just opening, and sunbeams 
darting dazzingly in. She longed to ask him the definition 
of a helle, but she dared not do it. She had lost the assumed 
boldness with which she commenced her attack, and it could 
not be recalled. 

Just before the evening closed, when her spirits were as elas- 
tic as the air she breathed, she was passing through the folding 
doors, within which Mr. Urvin was then standing, conversing 
with a group of gentlemen. He had his back towards her, 
and did not see her, though her robes swept lightly against 
him. He seemed engaged in earnest conversation, and she 
distinctly heard him utter the name of Rose Mayfield. For a 
moment her footsteps involuntarily paused, then she hurried 
on through a side door, nor stopped till she found herself iu 
the garden, in whose shaded walks she was sure of escaping 
observation. It was astonishing what an electric spark the 
mere pronunciation of that name had given her. What pos- 
sible association could there be with this proud, stately, and 
wealthy gentleman, moving in the very highest walks of society, 
and the poor and humble Rose ? He had probably seen her acci- 
dentally, as she had done, and admired the simplicity of her 
character and the unadorned graces of her person. Had not 
Frank said she was just the person to charm him ? Was she 
not the very opposite to that object of his abhorrence, a helle ? 
In an instant she arrived at the most surprising conclusions. 
He was the betrothed lover of Rose — those books were his 
gift — he would raise her to rank and affluence, and they would 
meet in the social circle, and even her mother would be con- 
strained to tolerate her as the bride of the admired Mr. Urvin. 

It was the most unfortunate thing in the world that she had 
ever heard that name, sweet and simple as it was, for it acted 
like an evil spell, and banished all her enjoyment. She tried 
to conceal her feelings, but when she returned to her guests, 
her cheek was paler, and her manner devoid of animation. 

" Bell, my love,^' said her mother, " what i& the matter ? 
Are you fatigued ? Do try to rally a little. I see Mr. Urvin 
coming this way. Every one is speaking of the impression 
you have made on him. It is such a triumph, Bell. Tm sure 
I wonder you do not exult at your success. There, I am glad 
to see the colour coming back to your cheeks.'' 

'' I am tired, mother— tired to death," said Bell, pettishly. 
^^ I do wish every one would go— and as for Mr. Urvin, I 


don't see what there is in him to make such a fuss about. I 
really think him a decided bore.^^ • 

" Bell !'' cried her mother, in a low voice, for she was 
fearful of being overheard, " you are the strangest girl I ever 
knew. You are never in the same mood three minutes in suc- 
cession. You are the most capricious -and spoiled of human 

^^ I know that, better than any one else, mother." The 
conversation was interrupted by the approach of Mr: Urvin, 
who came to make his parting bow. 

^[ Oh ! that I dared to ask him what he knew of Rose May- 
field !" thought Bell. '^ Yet, that he knows her at all^ is suf- 
ficient to prove all my fears.'' 

Fears ! why should she fear the influence of Rose on this 
man, so lately a stranger ? What was he to her, what could 
he ever be, even if the farmer's daughter were blotted from 
the scroll of existence ? Again and again she asked herself 
this question, when, after the dispersion of the company, she 
sought her chamber, and threw herself wearily on the bed. 

" Oh ! you will spoil your beautiful dress !" exclaimed 
Anna, in most distressed accents. 

"I don't care," replied her young mistress. ^^ I never 
will wear it again. I detest all this finery, jewels and all. 
Take off the dress and keep it, and never let me see it again." 

'■^ It is too fine for me," cried the delighted girl. " I could 
not think of robbing you of it. But how shall I take it off, 
while you are lying down V^ 

" Wait, then, till I am ready," said Bell, without thinking 
of the poor, tired waiting-maid, who could scarcely keep her 
weary eyelids from falling together. She did not mean to be 
unkind, but she was so absorbed in her own new and be- 
wildering thoughts, she forgot even her presence as soon as 
she ceased speaking. She lay for a long time — a strange and 
radiant figure to be reclining there — when the girl, overcome 
by fatigue, sunk down upon the floor and bent her head upon 
the bed-cover. Roused from her abstraction by the sudden- 
ness of the motion, Bell's heart smote her for her thoughtless- 
ness and selfishness. She rose and sufi"ered herself to be un- 
dressed, thinking how much less trouble Rose Mayfield's 
simple toilet must be than hers, with all its splendid deco- 
rations ! Ah ! how little did Rose dream of being an object 
of envy to the vain and beautiful Bell ! 



'* Give me the cot below the pine, 
To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine, 
"With the Ibonnie lass o' Ballodomyle." — Burns. 

*' If happiness have not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 

But never can be blest. 
Nae treasures, nae pleasures, 

Could make us happy long — 
The heart aye's the part aye. 

That makes us right or wrong." — Ibid. 

Is it supposed that Frank submitted to maternal autlioritj, 
and never more returned to the cottage, where the silver foun- 
tain gushed ? If it is, it is a great mistake. He had made a 
promise to Rose, which he felt bound, as a man of honour, 
not to violate. So, with an elegant pocket edition of Shaks- 
peare, which he had employed at leas*fc a day in marking, he 
started for the farmer's cabin without warning even Bell of 
his design. As he rode up to the door, he caught a glimpse 
of the bright face of Rose through the light, drooping leaves 
of the acacia, and the tree seemed in rosy bloom. The flower 
exhibited still deeper bloom as he entered. The spontaneous 
delight which Rose felt on finding that she was not forgotten, 
illumined her whole face. Frank wondered that he had thought 
her pretty before, she so infinitely transcended her former self. 
Her dress, though still the perfection of neatness, was far more 
becoming. Perhaps Rose herself could hardly analyze the 
motive that induced her, since the visit of the brother and 
sister, to pay more attention to her toilet, especially in the 
after part of the day. She discovered that a modest gingham 
frock was not too fine for a farmer's daughter, and thea her 
father loved so dearly to see her dressed with care ! The hue 
of her garment was blue — Frank's favourite colour — and a wild 
flower, dyed in sapphire, was set like a gem in her dark brown 

Frank saw that he was welcome, and the conviction that he 
was so, removed the slight embarrassment he had felt on his 
5 * 


entrance. He liad dreaded coldness and constraint, since he 
came unaccompanied by his sister ; he had prepared himself 
for a refusal of his book ; he had thought it possible she could 
not see him at all. Perhaps the farmer himself might make 
his appearance, and tell him to keep at a respectful distance 
from his daughter. After dwelling on the possibility, nay, 
even the probability of these things, it may be imagined how 
extremely pleasant it was to meet the bright smile, the kin- 
dling blush, that assured him of modest welcome. The volume 
he brought was illustrated, and this gave him an admirable 
excuse for sitting down by the side of Rose to show her the 
engravings. Then he offered to read to her, while she con- 
tinued her sewing, combining, in this way, the pleasures of 
literature and industry. Frank was a magnificent reader, and 
none but such should ever attempt the dramas of Shakspeare. 
Rose had heard them read before, by the brother of Mrs. 
Chandler; but his voice, like the organ, was fitted only for 
the sublime and majestic intonations of the darker passions; 
it could not play like Frank's, from the light play of Mercu- 
tio's wit, to the impassioned breathings of Romeo's love — 
then again from the insidious malice of lago, to the terrific 
ravings of Othello's jealousy. Rose listened with a charmed 
ear. The work fell from her hands, while her eye, fixed upon 
the reader, changed its expression with every varying senti- 
ment. It is no wonder that Frank felt inspired, when, ever 
and anon, looking up from his book, he saw such eyes riveted 
with unconscious interest on his face. 

" Have you never attended the theatre ?" asked he, abruptly. 


" You must go. Of how much pleasure have you been 
robbed ! You must visit the city — you must go to the theatre. 
You must see something of the world, from which you have 
been so long excluded. It is a sin and a shame that you 
should be buried here in this solitude. Are you contented, 
Rose ? Forgive my familarity, but I cannot help calling 
you so.'^ 

" I suspect I have my share of contentment," she replied 
with a smile, though a shade passed over her brow. " I ought 
to be happy, I am sure, for I reign absolute Queen of this 
little realm. My wishes are laws as absolute as those of the 
Medes and Persians. If I am tempted to sigh for pleasures 
beyond my reachj I find an antidote for discontent in my 


books and flowers, and the music of the singing fountain. Is 
your sister perfectly happy ? Are yon, P" 

" Yes ! I am perfectly happy at this moment. A rose-leaf 
could not find room on the brimming cup of my felicity. If I 
did not look from that window and see the sun sinking lower 
and lower, and know there would soon be a limit to my hap- 
piness, I could defy the philosophy of Solon. Oh ! for another 
Joshua to stay the evolutions of yon golden wheel l" 

Frank rose to depart. He felt that he could not, with pro- 
priety, linger till a later hour. 1 

" May I ask you to accompany me to the fountain ?'^ gaid 
he, glad to find an excuse to prolong his stay a little longer. 
" I do not understand its mysteries, and I cannot go without 
a drink of its sparkling waters." 

Rose led the way to the fountain, bearing in her hand a 
silver cup, one of the costliest gifts of her benefactress. Frank 
thought it was tin till he took it in his own hand, and then he 
wondered at the pure massive silver, on which the name of 
Rose was engraven, as much as he did at the silvery refine- 
ment of her language and the grace of her manners. 

^' You were not educated in this cottage. Rose ?'^ said he, in 
a tone of earnest int''vest.. " Think me not too inquisitive 
and impertinent, but tell me where you have acquired this 
mysterious grace and elegance, which contrasts so strangely 
with everything around and about you ?" 

" I'm sure nothing can be more graceful than the fall of 
the fountain," answered she, playfully, " or more elegant than 
this clustering foliage. But," added she, in a tone of deep 
feeling, "you are right in your supposition. For more than 
ten years I was under the guardianship of the best, the purest, 
the most refined of human beings. All that I am in heart 
and soul, I owe to her precepts and example. She is dead, 
but her memory is the polar star of my existence, to which 
the magnet of my spirit for ever turns." 

She spoke with enthusiasm, and tears trembled bright as 
the spray of the fountain in the soft depths of her eyes. 

" Oh ! that my mother could see her — could hear her !" 
thought Frank. '* She shall see her — she shall hear her — 
and her aristocratic prejudices shall be charmed away by the 
magic of her presence." 

Slowly they sauntered back to the cottage, and very slowly 
did Frank mount his horse for so young and gay a gentleman. 
Rose stood in the door-way, in the mellow beams of the setting 


sun. One of the sapphire- coloured flowers fell from her hair 
as she leaned against the frame-work. Frank sprang from his 
horse, atid, picking it up, hid it in the folds of his vest. 

" When I come again I will bring you some flowers from 
Bell's green-house/^ said he, "to indemnify you for the loss 
of this.'' 

"Will she never come again herself?" asked Rose, pained 
at having received no message from the capricious beauty. 

Frank blushed, remembering his mother's prohibition. He 
hardly knew what to reply. 

" She did not know I was coming. I was selfish, and 
"wished no one to share the welcome I was bold enough to 
think was in store for me. She has not forgotten you, I 
assure you.'' 

AVhen Frank returned home he took very good care to keep 
out of his mother's way, fearing she would ask him \rhere he 
had been. How often from this time he visited the cottage, 
she never knew, and perhaps he did not know himself. He 
learned to measure time by a new chronometer — and that was 
the old-fashioned hour glass on the farmer's old deal-table. 

One afternoon, just as he was turning into the path which 
led to the farmer's gate, he was surprised by the approach of 
a gentleman on horseback, coming from the house, and hig 
surprise was not diminished when he recognised the stately 
bearing, and dark, flashing countenance of Mr. Urvin. A 
glance of mutual astonishment and dissatisfaction passed be- 
tween them, as, with rather a cold bow, they rode by each 
other. Frank's face glowed with crimson as he saw Mr. Urvin 
look sarcastically at the magnificent bouquet which he had 
fastened, in some mysterious manner, to his saddle-bow, and 
at the bundle of books which he carried under his left arm. 
In spite of all his efi'orts to resume his self-possession, it was 
with the air of an indignant and deeply-injured man that he 
entered the rpom where Rose was seated, perfectly uncon- 
scious of his approach or entrance. She was leaning on the 
table with her head bowed down upon her hands, while her 
bosom heaved with suppressed sobs. Frank threw the books 
upon the table without speaking, but the noise made her start 
and suddenly lift her head. She smiled through showering 
tears, and hastily wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, en- 
deavoured to efface the traces of her deep emotion. Frank 
.looked so cross and sombre that her smile vanished, and a 
pause of mutual embarrassment succeeded 



" Ifear I am an intruder this evening," said Frank, tossing 
the flowers on the table, instead of offering them to her with 
one of his graceful and gallant speeches. "■ You seem very 
much preoccupied." 

" I must be pardoned if I am so," replied Rose, surprised 
and wounded by his cold and altered manner. " All the re- 
membrances of my childhood and earlier youth have been most 
powerfully and vividly awakened by the visit of a friend from 
whom I have been long separated. I did not know I was so 
much of a child still." 

Again she paused and wiped her glistening eyes. '^ This 
friend is Mr. Urvin, I presume, whom I met at your gate," 
said Frank, in a voice which had lost all its music. 

" Yes ! the brother of my benefactress — the guide, the 
counsellor of my youthful mind. I have not seen him since 
the death of his sister, and we both felt, in all its first force, 
our irreparable loss. It was mine," continued she, with 
quivering lip, " to repeat to him the last words of this angelic 

It was natural to suppose that Frank would have sympa' 
thized in her sensibility, and exerted himself in the task of 
consolation. But he was possessed of that demon whose name 
is Legion, and which human reason never yet cast out. Never 
was a being so transformed. He could not sit still and talk 
calmly with such a fever burning in his veins. He rose and 
went to the window, and made terrible destruction among the 
green leaves that curtained the casement. 

'' Has anything displeased you ?" asked Rose, with inex- 
pressible sweetness of manner, after watching him for some 
time pulling off the leaves, crushing them in his fingers, and 
hurling them through the air with a look of determined hos- 

Ashamed of his rudeness, yet unable to conquer the feeling 
which caused it, he turned round and took a seat. The flush 
bad left his cheek, and Rose was struck by his unusual pale- 

"■ You are not well," she exclaimed, with sudden appre- 
hension. " How exceedingly pale you look ! Let me run to 
the fountain and bring you some water," 

" No, no I" cried he, thoroughly ashamed of the passion 
which had subdued him. " I am well. It is nothing but a 
fit of ill-humour. Can you forgive me for being so cross and 
unamiable ?" 


" On condition that you tell me the cause of the phenome- 

" I know I have no cause to he displeased/' said Frank, 
and he had the grace to stammer a little; " but, knowing the 
perfect seclusion in which you live, you cannot wonder at my 
astonishment on seeing a man whose splendid endowments are 
the admiration of the fashionable world, y-our departing guest. 
The deep emotions he has called forth are another mystery. 
I dreamed not of this time-honoured intimacy. I did not know 
that the being existed who exercises such commanding influ- 
ence on your sensibilities." 

" That is, you find me not quite so lone and friendless as 
you imagined me to be," said Rose, an unwonted fire sparkling 
in her eye. 

" And yet this friend has been for many weeks in the city," 
said Frank, as if struck with a sudden thought, his counte- 
nance brightening as he spoke. " And, if I understand you 
right, this is the first time he has visited you. How can you 
reconcile this with his early friendship ?" 

" By his total ignorance of my abode. When he left the 
country I was an inmate of his sister's family; at her death I 
returned to my own home. He knew not the location of that 
humble home, and, though he has made constant inquiries, it 
was not till this morning that he ascertained it. He is too 
noble, too generous, too great in mind, and too warm in heart 
to forget those, however lowly, whom he has once honoured 
with his regard." 

She spoke with warmth,' and every glowing word fell cold 
as ice on the heart of Frank. She loved him. How could 
she help it ? Was not the apparently heartless Bell herself 
enthralled by the fascinations of this man ? and what was he 
in comparison ? a mere mote in a sunbeam. He had been 
indulging in a charming dream, but it was past. He had 
deceived himself with the idea that Rose liked him ; that she 
regarded him with a growing preference. Her smiles and 
blushes were so eloquent ; and then how often had he imagined 
he had seen the love-light beaming in her modest, but expres- 
sive eyes ! Yet he could not accuse her of art or coquetry. 
He had so far mastered the demon within him as to do justice 
to her worth, and Avas magnanimous enough even to justify 
her choice. 

" Here are some books which I have brought you," said 
he ; " you may find something to interest you in their pages. 


I hope so^ at least, as it is not likely I shall see you again 
very soon." 

" Why not ?" ejaculated Rose, in a low voice. 

" I do not feel as if my presence here could impart much 
pleasure, or my absence regret. You have other dearer friends, 
with whose claims I would not interfere, even if I had the 
presumption to believe that I had any caunter-influeDce.'^ 

" I am not so rich in friends that I can afford to lose one 
as soon as I have found another," said Rose, giving him a 
glance of mingled reproach and displeasure. " There are no 
claims with which your kindness could interfere — there is no 
influence hostile to j^our own." 

" Ah ! but there are some feelings which will not bear 
partnership," exclaimed he, with a kindli«g countenance. 

Just at this moment a side-gate opened, and farmer May- 
field was seen approaching, with his shirt-sleeves rolled above 
his elbows, and his gleaming scythe cradled on his shoulder. 
Rose started and drew back with a heightened colour. Frank 
bade her a hasty adieu, mounted his horse, and was out of 
sight of the cottage before the farmer had hung his scythe in 
its accustomed place. Then he repented the hasty impulse 
which had led him to avoid the father, as if ashamed of him- 
self, or the honest and hard-labouring man. Slackening his 
pace, he rode leisurely along, trying to cool the fever of his 
thoughts. He hung his hat on the pommel of the saddle, so 
that the twilight breeze could blow upon his fervid brow, and 
fixing his eye on the evening star — that fairest gem in the 
resplendent diadem of night — watched the little white fleecy 
clouds, one by one, glide over it, turning to silver as they 
passed, then melt away in the soft tranquillity of the azure 

Mrs. Raymond had been so absorbed by her schemes for 
Bell, and her plans to secure for her the exclusive devotion of 
Mr. Urvin, that she had, in a measure, lost sight of Frank. 
As he had said nothing more of Rose, she imagined that there 
was no possible danger from that source, and Bell had never 
mentioned that her name had ever been breathed by the lips 
of Mr. Urvin. Many a time had Bell formed the resolution 
of speaking to him, of the farmer's daughter, but an unconquer- 
able dread of having her fears confirmed, always paralyzed her 
tongue. Though she dared not think he had any peculiar 
interest in herself, there was no one in her own circle whose 
rivalship she feared, and she felt sure she had conquered his 


horror of a helle. He evidently sought her society, and paid 
her the great and unmistakable compliment of addressing her 
as a rational, intelligent, and immortal being. Mrs. Raymond 
grew very impatient at this state of things, and counselled 
Bell to assume certain airs and graces, which she had the 
good sense to perceive would only create disgust or ridicule. 

The evening after Frank's exciting visit to Rose, as he was 
lounging on a sofa, near which his mother was seated, while 
Bell flitted about the room, superfluously busy about nothing, 
some chord of remembrance was struck which vibrated to the 
name of Rose Mayfield, It might have been a dried acacia 
sprig, put as a mark in one of Frank's books, or a withered 
rose, or the engraving of a cottage, but whatever it was, the 
image of Rose came, a charming vision before her mind's eye, 
and forgetting the presence of her mother, Bell suddenly asked 
Frank when he had seen Rose Mayfield. 

Roused from a deep revery by the abrupt question, Frank, 
unprepared to make an evasive answer, and disdaining it if he 
were, replied : 

^'I saw her this very afternoon." 

"This afternoon!" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond. "What! 
that farmer's daughter ! that low girl, with whom I forbade 
you having the least intercourse ! Frank, Frank, how basely 
you have deceived me !" 

" I deny the charge !" cried Frank, springing up and look- 
ing as brave as a lion. " I have never deceived you. When 
you laid your commands upon me, I told you I was no longer 
a boy, nor would I be treated as such. I never promised 
obedience — I never meant to do so." 

" Frank !" cried Mrs. Raymond, pale and trembling with 
passion. " Is this the respect I have a right to claim ? This 
insolent defiance of my express prohibi.ion — this outrage to 
propriety — this disregard of your own social position — this 
shocking example to your sister !" 

" In everything else I have tried to conform to your wishes, 
mother, but I cannot adopt your narrow prejudices, or sacrifice 
the happiness of my whole life to cold, heartless pride." 

" Frank, there is not another gentleman in this city, who 
would degrade himself as you have done V 

" What do you think of your admired Mr. Urvin — your 
glass of fashion and your mould of form ? Did I not meet 
him this very afternoon, riding from her gate ? He is her 
most intimate friend ; the brother of the lady in whose home 


she was educated^ and -where she acquired that exquisite refine- 
ment and grace of manner I have never seen equalled. Ask 
him the next time you see him, what he thinks of Rose May- 

" Mr. Urvin !" repeated Mrs. Raymond, in a raised voice. 
" I cannot believe he has any interest in her, unless it may be 
charity. His attentions to Bell have been too marked and 
exclusive to allow of such a thing, even if he were tempted to 
stoop so low.'' 

^' Mother !" cried Bell, whose face had turned as pale as 
death, while Frank was speaking, '' Mr. Urvin has never com- 
mitted himself to me, by word or look. He has never mani- 
fested for me more than the interest of a friend — never." 

" Everybody is talking about his attentions to you, and 
your admiration of him. Everybody is congratulating me on 
your brilliant prospects. It is your own fault, if he is not 
your declared lover — if you charm him one moment, you repel 
him the next. A girl with half your attractions might have 
secured him long ago." 

" Mother !" said Bell, with a dignity of manner so unwonted, 
so unnatural, that Mrs. Raymond almost doubted her identity. 
*' I have never tried to secure or captivate Mr. Urvin. I formed 
the rash design of doing so, when I heard he avoided an in- 
troduction to me. But in his presence, every vain and foolish 
thought dies within me. I only feel his immeasurable superi- 
ority, and the scorn and contempt he must feel for every little 
and low-born artifice. I have never thought myself worthy 
of him. I believe Rose Mayfield to be so. The first evening 
he ever was here, I overheard him utter her name in a tone 
of no common interest, and I felt a conviction that he loved 
her. I am sorry for it, for Frank's sake." 

" Really !" cried Mrs. Raymond, getting more and more 
angry, " you will drive me crazy, talking about this girl. If 
I thought Frank had one serious thought of marrying such a 
one as she — of linking himself to such low connexions — he 
should never darken these doors again." 

" Well, mother, I have had a great many serious thoughts 
about marrying her, and I have not given them up yet, in 
spite of my formidable rival. I am determined to enter the 
lists with him, and he who wins must wear her." 

^' I suppose you will assist your honourable father-in-law in 
the work of the farm," said his mother, in a cold, jeering tone. 

" I should not think myself degraded by so doing. That 


little cabin would be to me lovely as tbe bowers of Eden, with 
a Rose, sweet as the rose of Sharon, blooming there for me." 

" Ridiculous ! absurd ! insulting I" cried Mrs. Raymond, 
traversing the carpet with the true tragedy step. " If you 
must talk in this outrageous manner, I desire you to leave the 
room. Your presence is too oppressive.^' 

" Willingly, my dear mother. I was just thinking of 
taking a walk in the garden. Come, Bell — the star-light is 
beautiful, and the night-breeze is laden with the fragrance of 
a thousand flowers." 

Winding his arm round Bell, they were about to leave the 
room together, when suddenly turning back, he approached 
his mother, and said : 

<' I am sorry, I am grieved, that I have displeased you, my 
mother. Forgive me, if I have uttered anything disrespectful 
or defying, I would not forget my duty as a son, while I 
assert my independence as a man. Will you not give me your 
hand in token of reconciliation V 

" I want no hollow professions," replied she, turning 
haughtily away, and rejecting his offered hand. "Actions 
speak louder than unmeaning words. There can be no recon- 
ciliation that is not founded on obedience." 

Tbe brother and sister left their exasperated mother, and 
sought the balmy stillness of the flower garden. They walked 
in silence till they reached an arbour of lattice work, literally 
covered with odoriferous vines. There they sat down, when 
all at once Bell leaned her head upon his shoulder and burst 
into tears. He did not ask her why she wept, for his heart 
told him why. But he was strangely afi"ected by tears falling 
BO copiously from eyes so unused to weep. His own eyes 
glistened with sympathy, and pressing her tenderly to him, he 
said : 

" If we are both doomed to be unhappy by the same cause, 
and our mother casts us in auger away, we will only cling 
more closely to each other. Bell, and love each other with a 
fonder, deeper, love/' 



" Look on a love, which knows not to despair, 
But all unquenched, is still my better part — 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart. 
As dwells the gathered lightning in the cloud." — Byron. 

"Riches, like insects, 
Wait but for wings, and in a moment fly." — Pope. 

Mr. Urvin purchased an elegant house, and had it fur- 
nished according to his own classic and magnificent taste — a 
widowed lady, a distant relative of his, presided over the 
establishment — and the world said all this was preparatory to 
his marriage with Bell Raymond. When invitations were 
issued for a party at this splendid Bachelor's Hall, as it was 
styled, a thrill of pleasurable excitement went through the 
heart of the social circle. But the deepest thrill was felt in 
Mrs. Raymond's vain, ambitious bosom. 

^' This,^' thought she, " will be a decisive moment. Should 
he distinguish Bell by public attention in his own home, it 
will be equivalent to a declaration. As for this country girl, 
Frank's jealousy has exaggerated her pretensions. Very 
likely his sister might have taken her as a companion or an 
underling, and if Bell did hear him mention her name, he was 
probably recommending her as a chambermaid or a seamstress. 
I never saw anything like the infatuation of these children.'' 

Bell looked forward to the evening with no anticipations of 
triumph. A great change had come over her. The light 
and flimsy materials which had long disguised the naturally fine 
proportions of her character, had gradually been burning out 
in the pure and vestal flame kindled in her heart. Vanity 
and love cannot exist together, they cannot breathe the same 
atmosphere ; for humility, with softening shadow, follows the 
footsteps of love, and the eye, fixed with adoring gaze on the 
perfections of another, forgets to admire its own radiance. 

Bell was indeed greatly changed. Her mother scolded and 
fretted, and said that she was grown dull and stupid, and 
actually losing her beauty for want of animation. Bell had 
learned to think that beauty was not the only charm that 


could captivate tlie heart of man. The dark, searching eye, 
whose glance rested upon her with such poWer and intensity, 
penetrated far deeper than the surface, and she felt as if there 
was a kind of omniscience in its beam — as if all her folly and 
waywardness were laid bare before it, neutralizing the transient 
admiration that beauty might inspire. 

It was late when they entered the crowded rooms, for Mrs. 
Raymond always liked to create a sensation wherever she went. 
As they passed along with slow steps through the human waves 
that divided to make a passage for them, to the lady of the 
house, Bell started as if a shock of electricity ran through her 
frame. Through the vista made by the opening, she saw their 
host, at the upper end of the illuminated apartment, and stand- 
ing by him, with her arm linked in his, was a young girl, 
whom she had never before met in the halls of wealth and 
fashion. And in unadorned white, she was not more conspicu- 
ous for the simplicity of her dress, than for her sweet and 
blooming loveliness. She looked like a rose freshly plucked 
from the wild wood, in all its dewy fragrance and purity. 

"Who is that beautiful girl leaning on the arm of Mr. 
Urvin V asked Mrs. Raymond in a tone of wonder and alarm. 

Bell looked everywhere but at the right place. She felt a 
mysterious reluctance to mention aloud a name which would 
ring as the death-knell of all her hopes. Mrs. Raymond re- 
peated the question impatiently of Frank, whom she had by 
no means restored to favour. He, for reasons best known to 
himself, was equally blind and obtuse. He could not distin- 
guish Mr. Urvin, though his stately figure rose above all that 
surrounded him. He turned his head to the right and left — 
looked everywhere but straight before him — while his face 
reddened and his brow contracted. In the mean time, Mr. 
Urvin said something in a low voice to the young lady, who, 
withdrawing her arm, drew modestly back from the blaze of 
the chandelier, while Mr. Urvin advanced to meet his guests. 
Mrs. Raymond's jealous fears were somewhat soothed by the 
manner in which he accosted Bell, offered her his arm, and re- 
quested the privilege of introducing her to a young friend of 
his, who was a stranger in the city, and to whom he had pro- 
mised the pleasure of her acquaintance. Mrs. Raymond's 
eyes eagerly followed the graceful figure of her daughter, so 
beautifully contrasted with the tall form of her conductor, and 
as he bowed his head, evidently conversing with her in a low, 


earnest voice, till bis sable bair almost toucbed ber lustrous 
ringletSj ber bopes rose from tbeir unexpected prostration. 

" Tbere, Frank ! you can see ber now. Sbe is standing by 
tbat flower-stand yonder/^ repeated sbe. " Wbat a beautiful 
profile, and fine-turned bead ! Wbo can sbe be ?'" 

" Do you tbink ber pretty ?'' asked Frank, in a tone of in- 
difi"erence. " Really, you bave a strange taste ! Do you not 
tbink tbere is sometbing low and vulgar in ber air ? I 
sbrewdly suspect sbe is ?l par venue J' 

" I ougbt not to wonder at your difference of opinion," said 
bis motber in a tone of sarcasm, " since you bave lately given 
sucb a proof of tbe refinement and fastidiousness of your own 
taste. Tbis young lady bas a decidedly distinguisbed air, and 
must be somebody, or Mr. Urvin would not bave bonoured ber 
by bis attention. See — be is introducing ber to Bell. Wby 
don't you go and seek an introduction yourself, instead of 
looking so red and stupid, and staring at ber so strangely ?" 

" Well, I will go, and tben introduce ber to you, motber. 
Perbaps sbe will look better on a nearer view." 

Mrs. Raymond seated berself wbere sbe could watcb tbe 
trio, now standing by tbe pyramid of flowering plants, wbicb 
formed a blooming back-ground to tbeir figures, and brougbt 
tbem out in strong relief. 

''Frank seems to bave made an impression," tbougbt sbe, 
noting tbe radiant blusb and smile witb wbicb sbe received 
bis low bow. " He is a bandsome boy, and knows bow to 
make bimself agreeable, too. Perbaps this young lady is an 
beiress. If sbe is. Heaven grant tbat sbe may cure bim of 
bis disgraceful partiality for tbat farmer's daughter ! But 
supposing Mr. Urvin bimself " 

She would not admit tbe painful suggestion that pressed 
upon her thoughts. It was not very long before Frank ap- 
proached her, arm in arm witb tbe beautiful stranger. It is 
seldom, on a first introduction, especially in a buzzing crowd, 
tbat one bears the name distinctly. Perbaps Frank did not 
articulate as clearly as usual, or ber bearing might be a little 
obtuse. Sbe certainly understood bim to say Miss Haymead, 
and nothing could exceed the cordial politeness of ber man- 

Frank bad expected a start of amazement, a look of em- 
barrassment and displeasure. He could not account for tbe 
smiling ease and suavity wbicb animated ber manner, but be 
rejoiced in it. He soon, however, was made aware of tbe 


truth, hj her addressing the young lady as Miss Haymead. 
Whether Rose (for every one must know that it was Rose 
Mayfield thus suddenly transplanted among the exotics of 
fashion) did not notice the mistake, or whether she was deter- 
red from correcting it by the flashing movement of Frank's 
eye, she sufi"ered it to pass without comment. Mrs. Raymond 
appeared enchanted by her conversation, and Frank, yielding 
himself to the joyous influences of the present moment, forgot 
his jealous madness, and his spirits rose and sparkled and 
efi"ervesced, till Rose caught the contagion and laughed as gayly 
as Bell had done in her own cottage home. 

Frank was not allowed to monopolize one who was invested 
with the attractive charm of novelty, and who, rumour said, 
was a niece of the distinguished host. She was surrounded 
by admirers, eager to secure her attention, and even the beauti- 
ful Bell was eclipsed by the blooming cottage maid. 

" Have you ascertained if she is an heiress, Frank V asked 
Mrs. Raymond of her son. 

" Yes, mother ! She has an inheritance richer, by far, than 
any one in this assembly, and what is more, it is secured by 
such inalienable rights, that it cannot be taken away from 

" I trust you will profit by the opportunity," cried the 
worldly, scheming woman. "She's evidently pleased with 
you, and I have no doubt you will succeed, if you try. You 
cannot now bestow a thought on the low girl, whom you pre- 
tended to admire so much.'' 

" Nevertheless, mother, she is just as pretty and accom- 
plished as this charming Miss Hayflower." 

" Ridiculous ! Let me hear no more of this folly." 

" But Mr. Urvin — you forget him. How can I contend 
with such a powerful rival V 

" How do you know he is your rival ? I told you before, 
that the world had given him to your sister, and his attentions 
have justified the report. Besides, you are much younger and 
handsomer than he is." 

, " Thank you for the compliment, mother ; but she may not 
see with your eyes." 

Before the company dispersed, she took the most elaborate 
pains to seek Miss Haymead and inquire her address, that she 
and her daughter might have the honour of calling on her. 

" I reside in the country," answered the young girl, looking 
down, while a smile played upon her lips. 


" Indeed ! I shall certainly trouble Mr. Urvin to direct us 
to your residence. ^^ 

" Your son has my address, madam/' said Rose, with a 
blush which Mrs. Raymond hailed as the surety of his success. 
Another circumstance elated her spirits — Mr. Urvin accom- 
panied Bell to the carriage, and wrapped her shawl around her 
with his own hands — an attention she had not seen him bestow 
upon a lady before. 

''What a charming young lady Miss Haymead is!" ex- 
claimed she, as the carriage rolled over the pavement. 

" Miss who ?" cried Bell, elevating her voice. Frank gave 
her arm an admonishing pinch, and whispered, ^'hush!" 

" Miss Haymead ! The young lady who created such a 
sensation to-night. lam sure you must know whom I mean.'^ 

" Oh, yes ! the beautiful stranger. Were you really pleased 
with her, mother ?" 

^' Pleased ! I was charmed — and I am glad the scales have 
fallen from Frank's eyes at last, so that he can perceive what 
true beauty and gentility is.'^ 

Bell burst into one of her old musical laughs. 

" I am glad to see you in such spirits," said her mother. 
^' Mr. Urvin talked with you a great deal to-night. I hope he 
said something to the purpose." 

" He never seems to utter an aimless word," was the reply, 

" Precious are the words which the lips of wisdom utter," 
added she, in a low, soliloquizing voice. — 

" They be white-winged seeds of happiness, wafted from the islands 

of the blest, 
Which thought carefully tendeth, in the kindly garden of the heart. 
They be sproutings of an harvest for eternity, bursting through the 

tilth of time, 
Green promise of the golden wheat, that yieldeth angels' food. 
They be drops of crystal dew, which the wings of seraphs scatter. 
When on some brighter Sabbath, their plumes quiver most with de- 


" Why, Bell, I thought you did not know more than sis 
lines of poetry by heart,'^ said Frank. 

'' These are the very six lines I do know." 

" And how came you to remember these ?" 

'' I heard Mr. Urvin quote them." 

^' I think it was time he was saying something more sub- 


stantial than poetry," interrupted Mrs. Raymond angrily. 
" Tell me, Bell, has he not spoken to you of marriage yet V 

" He has spoken of marriage in general, but not in par- 
ticular, mother.' ' 

" I think he is old enough to make up his mind." 

^' You forget Rose Mayfield, mother, and what Frank told 
you about her." 

The darkness of night concealed her countenance, and her 
mother did not notice the tremor of her voice. 

" Rose Fiddlestick !" she exclaimed. " Never mention that 
girl's name in my presence again. It really makes me sick," 

" And me, too," repeated Frank, scornfully. '' I am quite 
disgusted with it, since I have heard that of Miss Haymead." 

Mrs. Raymond felt as if she could have killed the fatted 
calf for her repentant prodigal as soon as they arrived at home, 
so delighted was she with the return of his native aristocracy. 

It was well for her that she was unconscious of the terrible 
blow impending, though when it fell, it crushed — almost an- 
nihilated her — and she lay a miserable victim beneath the 

ruins of wealth and pride. The Bank, in which all 

her property was invested, failed, and hundreds who were 
rolling in affluence, were reduced to sudden penury. The 
brother and sister were at first stunned and dismayed, and 
then Bell wept and sobbed like a heart-broken child. But 
after this ebullition of passionate regret, it was astonishing 
with what calmness and fortitude she looked the future in 
the face, dark and threatening as it seemed. Her mind, with 
elastic power, rebounded from the pressure beneath which her 
mother impotently groaned, and she exulted in the conscious- 
ness of new-born energies. Frank, too, was grave and thought- 
ful, but not despairing. It was for Bell he trembled, not for 
himself; but when he saw her so brave and self-relying, it 
made him doubly strong, 

" I am not going to shed another tear, Frank," said she. 
^' I feel now, that I shall have an aim for which to live. I 
remember a remark of Mr, Urvin's, that labour was the great 
sacrament of life. Is not that a noble sentiment ? I am sure 
I shall feel happier to be doing something, than leading such 
a useless, idle, and selfish existence, as I have hitherto done." 

'' Yes, it must be very noble to labour. But what can you 
do ? I can work — I can toil — I can do either head-work or 
hand-work ; but what can you do with those fair, feeble hands, 
and that little girlish head ?" 


"I can do a great deal, sir. I can teach a school, give 
music or embroidery lessons. Drawing and painting I under- 
stand. I am willing to do anything but take in s°ewing. I 
believe that would kill me." 

'^ / shall be able to support you and mother both. You 
shall never toil for a subsistence.'" 
. " We must give up this beautiful house/' said Bell. 

'' And get some neat little cottage in the country/' cried 
Frank, " with a small farm and a dairy.'' 

" Oh ! that will be delightful," exclaimed Bell ; " but poor 
mother ! I fear she will never be happy again. It is dreadful 
to hear her bewailings and murmurs. Yv'hat shall we do with 
her ?" 

Yes, what was to be done with Mrs. Raymond ? That was 
the question. She was the most refractory and unmanageable 
bemg in the world. While her children were bravely wres^ 
Img with their destiny, in all their youth and inexperience, 
appealing to her for counsel and encouragement, she gave her- 
self up to frantic and impatient grief. She would not hear 
of giving up the house she inhabited, with its costly and 
elegant furniture, and live in some little mean hovel, which 
the I/, with their grovelling tastes, might be satisfied in. SJw 
was not sunk so low as that. Bell should never degraao 
herself by teaching school or giving private lessons. Frank 
should never perform a hireling's duty, or accept a hirelino-'s 
wages. ° 

<' But what shall we live upon, mother ?" asked the son. 
" How shall we pay our daily expenses ?" 

'' How do other people live, who have failed, I should like 
to know ? I know many a family which has kept up the same 
style as before, only more elegant and luxurious. We can do 
as they do." 

'' Oh ! mother, how can you speak in this manner to your 
children, who are willing to do anything for themselves and 
you ?" cried Frank, his cheek burning with the hue of shame. 

" There is certainly no need of raising all this hue and cry 
at present. No one is going to turn us out of house and home. 
A family occupying the rank which ours does, will be treated 
with more consideration. As for you, you have nothing to 
do but to address Miss Haymead immediately, and secure her 
fortune ; and as for you, Bell, a very little manoeuvring will 
bring Mr. Urvin, cold and haughty as he is, to your feet." 
^' Oh ! mother !" it was Bell's turn to exclaim, " will you 


never understand me ? When I first saw him of whom you 
now speak, I was vain and bold enough to meditate the con- 
quest of his noble heart, willing even to stoop to artifice and 
manoeuvring, to eflfect my design. But now, since I know 
him, and know myself better, I should as soon think of allur- 
ing the sun from his central throne, as to dream of winning 
him by those light and meretricious acts his influence has 
taught me to loathe and to scorn. No, mother,^' continued 
she — and her blue eye lighted up with the enthusiasm she had 
long kept down in her bosom, as something too sacred for 
show, and shed a sudden glory upon her face — "were he freely 
and unsought, to offer me his love, and were I worthy of such 
a gift, a long life were all too short to prove my gratitude and 
joy. But never, never speak of it again. It is humiliating 
to us both.'^ 

Without waiting for her mother to reply, Bell hurried from 
the room, sighing for the want of that maternal sympathy and 
support for which her yearning spirit vainly sought. 

Mr. Urvin did not desert them in these darkened moments. 
He came more frequently, was more kind and assiduous than 
ever. With equal delicacy and generosity, he offered all the 
assistance which, as a friend, he felt privileged to bestow. Mrs. 
Baymond would eagerly have availed herself of his politenesSj 
as she called it, but the children struggled nobly with her 
selfish resolve. 

"We can never repay him," they said; "we cannot live 
under the burthen of obligations so painfully incurred. We 
must rely on ourselves, and we never shall bcyounger, stronger, 
or more able to cope with our destiny." 

In spite of the frowns and reproaches of her mother. Bell 
unfolded her plans to Mr. Urvin, and frankly asked his advice 
as to the best course to be adopted. His countenance lighted 
up with pleasure as she spoke. The glance he bent upon her 
was full of encouragement and approbation. 

" I know your motives," said he. " I admire your resolution. 
I thank you warmly for your confidence in my friendship and 
your appeal to my judgment. I will do anything in the world 
to assist your noble design. I have no doubt you will find in 
your accomplishments an ample resource, and your brother's 
talents will enable him to secure some office of honour and 

" Do you advise my daughter to advertise as a hireling, for 


wages ?^^ exclaimed Mrs. Kaymond, a hot, red flusli spreading 
over her face. 

" I would advise her to follow the noble impulse that urges 
her to gird herself for the trials and discipline of life, madam. ^^ 

'^ But the disgrace, Mr. Urvin \" 

" There is no disgrace in the performance of duty. There 
is honour, there is glory in it. Believe me, madam, your 
daughter will be far more worthy of admiration, giving lessons 
in music and drawing, in your present emergency, than as 
the helle of a brilliant assembly, the cynosure of beauty and 

Bell looked towards him, her eyes radiant with gratitude. 
How strong, how hopeful, how happy she felt ! She longed 
10 begin her new life of duty and self-exertion. She talked 
with animation of the future, which brightened in the sun- 
shine of Mr. Urvin's approving smile. Never had she seen 
him smile so benignly. Never had his voice sounded so gently 
in her ear. Did he indeed love Rose Mayfield ? 

" Well I'^ exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, as soon as he had de- 
parted, " it is all over now. If he ever thought of marrying 
you, he would never counsel you to take such a course. That 
is certain. You might have had him if you had followed my 
advice, instead of turning into such a poor, hum-drum, spirit- 
less thing. Ah, me ! who would wish to be a mother ?" 

Poor Mrs. Raymond ! 


" She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin shame." — Coleridge. 

"Hence, bashful cunning! 
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
I am your wife, if you will marry me." — Shakspeare. 

In spite of the opposition of Mrs. Raymond, the proposed 
plans were carried into operation. The house was given up 
for one suited to their altered circumstances. Bell, through 
the influence of Mr. Urvin, who assumed all the responsibili- 
ties of her instalment, obtained as many pupils in music and 
drawing as she desired. Frank accepted the office of clerk in 


one of tlie largest mercantile establishments in tlie city. The 
merchant had been a friend of his late father, and was anxious 
to assist the young man who was willing to assist himself. 

Thus the winter months passed away, and they might have 
been happy were it not for the peevish repinings of Mrs. Ray- 
mond. It is not probable that Frank had forgotten Rose, or 
that he did not occasionally visit the farmer's cottage. When 
his mother persecuted him about Miss Haymead, he always 
told her that he did visit and pay court to her, and that when 
he could hold his head a little higher he intended to propose. 

One evening, after Bell had dismissed her pupils, she sat 
leaning her head on the piano, in a dejected, listless attitude. 
She felt that sudden subsidence of the spirits, that sinking of 
the heart which persons of ardent sensibility often experience, 
and for which they cannot account. The burden of life began 
to press a little heavier upon her. The excitement of novelty 
was long since past, and the monotony of her daily task at 
this moment assumed an aspect of absolute dreaminess. She 
thought how sweet it would be to toil even ten times harder 
than she was compelled to do, sustained by the love of one 
whose name, even in thought, made all the pulses of her being 
thrill. His friendship was the most precious boon of heaven ; 
but his love — Oh ! that would be Heaven itself. 

'' Oh ! not for me, not for me !" murmured she to herself, 
while the tears glided faster and faster down her pale cheeks. 

"In tears, Bell!" exclaimed Mr. Urvin, entering at this 
moment with unusually gentle tread. " In tears !" repeated 
he, approaching her, and, sitting down by her, he took one of 
her trembling hands in his. " What has occurred to sadden 
this brave, resisting spirit V 

" Nothing,'^ replied she, hastily. " I am very foolish — 
very childish — but sometimes there is such a balm in tears I" 

" You are weary. Your life is too monotonous, too seden- 
tary. Your burthen is greater than you can bear. Lean on 
me — my arm is strong, and my heart is firm. Sympathy, my 
poor child, is the sweetest privilege of friendship.'^ 

Laying his hand soothingly on her head, which bowed be- 
neath his light touch, he drew still nearer to her. Then he 
talked to her in low, gentle, yet earnest accents, of the disci- 
pline of life ; of the fire by which the gold of the heart must 
be purified of its dross ; of the clouds of suffering, which, like 
those that gather round the setting sun, change to golden 
radiance beneath the rays of the Sun of Righteousness. 


" Oh V thought she, " if friendship is so sweet, so con- 
soling, why should I sigh for love ?" 

" Would you not like to relinquish your present toilsome 
mode of existence ?" he asked. " Have you never dreamed 
of happiness which cannot be enjoyed alone ? Does your heart 
feel no dearth, no void, which the consciousness of duties 
performed, which even the hope of Heaven cannot fill r' 

Never had he spoken with such thrilling earnestness. Bell 
lifted her eyes to bow them again before a glance of dazzling, 
burning power, when the door opened and Mrs. Raymond 
entered with her usual imposing air. Mr. Urvin rose from 
his chair with a slight contraction of the brow, indicative of 
vexation. Bell, who had felt as if the crisis of her destiny 
were at hand, when her trembling hopes were to be confirmed, 
or her haunting fears made truths, never had known her 
mother's presence so oppressive. Frank entered soon after, 
and under no circumstances could he be an unwelcome guest, 
there was something so gladdening and care-dispelling, and, 
in spite of a little occasional brusquerie, and don't care for 
anything kind of manner, so love-creating about him. 

'' Frank," said Mr. Urvin, " I want you and your sister to 
take a ride in the country with me to-morrow. You can go 
on horseback if you please. Close confinement is wilting the 
roses of her cheek, and the pure, rustic breeze, fresh from the 
mountains, will do no injury to yourself. Would you like it, 
Bell V 

" Oh, yes !" she replied, with so much eagerness she blushed 
afterwards, and wished she could school her feelings better. 

" I have promised my young friend. Rose Mayfield, this ' 
pleasure long siuce,'^ said he. " You are mere acquaint- 
ances now — I want you to become friends — intimate, life-long 

"Rose Mayfield!" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, giving her 
head one of its old-fashioned tosses. " I assure you, Mr. Ur- 
vin, that I have no desire that mi/ daughter should form such 
intimacies. If we have lost our fortune, we can at least re- 
tain our respectability and self-respect." 

" Far be it from me, madam, to endanger either. On the 
contrary, they will both be enhanced by the intimacy I have 
urged on your daughter." 

"Why, she is nothing but a poor farmer's daughter !" 

" Mother 1" interrupted Bell, " you forget she is a friend of 
Mr. Urvin' s — the adopted daughter of his sister. Surely you 


would not wound his feelings by disparaging remarks upon 
one in whom he is so deeply interested/' 

" If Mr. Urvin chooses to form such associations," said the 
lady, exasperated on account of this depth of interest, which 
she considered an outrageous injury to Bell, " I am sure it is 
no business of mine. But in my own family, I might expect 
some little influence and authority. I do not consider Miss 
Rose Blayfield a proper companion for my children. '^ 

" You appeared to admire her very much, madam, when she 
had the honour of an introduction to you/' observed he, with 
a sarcastic smile. 

" I ! I never saw the girl in my life." 

^' Pardon me for contradicting you, but you met her under 
my own roof, where she divided with your daughter the ad- 
miration of a large and brilliant assembly." 

"1 remarked no stranger but Miss Haymead," cried she, 
beginning to look very red. 

'^ Excuse me, mother," said Frank, coming forward. "I 
introduced her to you as Miss May field. The improvement 
you made upon her name, was an idea of your own. I sup- 
pose you thought it more aristocratic." 

" If you have all entered into a conspiracy to deceive and 
make a fool of me," exclaimed his mother, looking from one 
to the other with inexpressible displeasure, "I know not which 
most to admire, the silliness or impertinence of the plot." 

" It was pure accident, mother," said Frank. " I intended 
to correct the mistake, but you seemed so charmed with her, 
I feared to break the spell." 

" You said she was the heiress of a rich inheritance. What 
a base deception !" 

'^ She is," cried Mr. Urvin, with dignity. " Your son has 
uttered nothing but the truth. She is the heiress of an inheri- 
tance ' incorruptible, undefiled, and that passeth not away.' 
Nor is this all. she has in reversion, a fortune which you will 
probably deem of far greater worth. As the adopted daughter 
of my sister, she would have been splendidly endowed, had 
not treachery robbed her of her rightful dowry. I shall do 
her that justice myself, which my sister was prevented from 
doing. Heaven has blessed me with an ample fortune, which 
I intend, Grod willing, that Rose Mayfield shall share. She 
will be no dowerless bride for the man, who, appreciating her 
matchless excellence, shall bind her to his heart by those ties 
which only crime or death can sever ; and now, madam," added 


he, subduing the somewhat commanding tone of his voice, 
" I shall deem any remarks derogatory to Rose Mayfield, as 
an insult to myself, who am proud to consider myself her 
guardian and her friend/' 

Mrs. Rciymond was too much awed by his manner, and the 
dark fire that flashed from his eye, to attempt a reply. Un- 
able to suppress her mortification, she abruptly left the room 
and retired to her own, where we do not believe any one had 
the least inclination to follow her. 

" Rose will share his fortune/' again and again sighed the 
throbbing heart of Bell. " It is as his wife, he means. I 
though — I knew — yes — I knew it would be so.'' 

" Rose will share his fortune I" repeated Frank, to himself. 
" Then it is decided, and there is no earthly hope for such a 
poor fellow as myself. Heaven preserve me from the mean- 
ness of envy, and bind up the wound which I fear will be in- 
flicted on the heart of my noble Bell." 

'' To-morrow !" said Mr. Urvin in departing. " I trust we 
shall have a happy day." 

He looked very happy himself, but he left thoughtful, seri- 
ous faces behind him. 

It was a bright, blue, vernal morning, and when Bell found 
herself by Mr. Urvin in an elegant carriage, while Frank rode 
as a cavalier in advance, she felt, whatever life had in store 
for her, there was joy, there was rapture, in the present 
moment. Mr. Urvin' s manner was so kind and tender, his 
conversation so fascinating — how could she think of any- 
thing else ? Then the air was so balmy with the incense 
of opening flowers, so full of the sweet music of singing waters 
and warbling birds and rustling leaves, her young heart, 
liberated from the restraint of daily discipline, throbbed in 
unison with the great, glad heart of nature. The ride seemed 
all too short, when they stopped at a large white gate, in 
front of a handsome new house, built in the cottage style, in 
the midst of a beautiful green yard, shaded- by acacia trees. 
Bell cast an inquiring glance towards her companion, who, 
smiling at her bewildered expression, sprang from the carriage, 
and assisted her to descend. 

" Our hostess stands at the door to welcome us," said he. 
" Do you recognise her ?" 

Bell looked, but the hostess was not standing in the door ; 
she was running down the steps to meet them, and Bell was 
sure, from her dress and manner, that they were expected 


guests. A glow, bright as the morning, dawned on her face. 
She ushered them into a little parlour, newly and handsomely 
furnished, containing nothing to remind one of the old room 
in the cabin, but the hour-glass, which now stood on the 
mantelpiece, and the boughs of the acacia trees, that shaded 
the windows. 

'^ You miss the old cabin," said Rose, ^^ do you not? 
Yonder it is, in the back -ground, and there Hannah presides, 
the happiest of human beings. Can you imagine what modern 
Aladdin has built this palace for our abode, leaving us almost 
without a wish, certainly without a want ?" 

She cast a grateful. Bell thought an adoring, glance at Mr. 
Urvin, whose countenance beamed with joy. Yes, the shelves 
of books were there also, hanging on the wall. Frank, who 
thought himself armed with sufficient philosophy to think of 
Rose as a friend, felt his panoply falling away from him, 
leaving him unhelmed, unshielded, and weaponless. Finding 
it difficult to talk with ease, he turned to the book shelves, 
and pretended to be absorbed by their contents. He took up 
his own Shakespeare. He could not help perceiving that 
every passage he had read and admired was marked, and as 
he opened the leaves, rose petals, carefully pressed, dropped 
at his feet. 

" Take care V said Rose, stooping to gather the faded blos- 
soms. As she lifted her head, their eyes met with mutual 
embarrassment, and as she dropped the rose leaves between 
the pages, her hand, which accidentally touched his, trembled. 
This did not seem like indifference. Frank looked involun- 
tarily at Mr. Urvin, expecting to see a jealous frown, but on 
the contrary, he wore a remarkably benignant expression, 
though he was gazing on them. 

" He does not seem to be jealous," thought Frank. " Fll try 
him a little more. Fll ask her to go to the spring, and drink 
perchance the last pure draught of happiness that will ever 
refresh my thirsty spirit.'^ 

The serene expression of Mr. Urvin's countenance did not 
change, as they passed out together, unless it beamed with 
greater satisfaction. Bell was vexed with herself at the em- 
barrassment she experienced, on finding herself alone with Mr. 
Urvin. She thought it hardly polite in Rose to leave her, 
and wondered if Rose would have been pleased, if she had 
gone with Mr. Urvin in the same manner. 

'^ How very lovely Rose is V said she, following with her 


eyes, her retreating figure. '^ I thought her merely pretty 
when I first saw her — now, she is really beautiful/^ 

'■'• She ?*s lovely, and what is more, she is good and true,'' 
replied Mr. Urvin. '^ She is worthy of the heart she has 

" I believe so. I have always thought, always said so," 
cried Bell, speaking with warmth, though cold shivers crept 
through her frame. " I congratulate you on the treasure you 
have gained. I hope — I trust " 

She thought she would make an eloquent speech, but her 
voice grew husky, then faltered and died away. Ashamed of 
her emotion, and terrified at the construction he might put 
upon it, she rose precipitately to leave the room, when he in- 
tercepted her flight. 

*' Why do you congratulate me .^" he cried, taking her hand 
and leading her back to her seat, while a triumphant smile 
played upon his lips. ^^ Look at me. Bell, read the language 
of my countenance truly and honestly, and then, if you have 
faith in my integrity, tell me if you believe that I love Bose 
Mayfield ) that it is of my own heart I was speaking ; that I 
have, even in thought, ever rivalled your brother ?" 

Bell looked up one moment — the next, her head was bowed, 
and her cheeks, forehead and neck, were sufiiised with crimson. 
Even the hand which he held, caught a roseate tinge, from 
the sun-burst of happiness that illumined her heart. 

" I have never intended to trifle with your feelings. Bell," 
added he, after a pause of deep emotion, for he actually 
trembled to perceive 'the extent of his own overmastering 
influence. '■'• I have withheld the expression of my own, ia 
spite of almost irresistible temptations, while adversity has 
been testing and time confirming j^our long latent virtues. 
Even from the first, I was charmed by your beauty, and 
fascinated by the strange mingling of artlessness and affecta- 
tion, of simplicity and coquetry, visible in your character. 
But I have passed the heyday of youthful romance, and could 
not choose as the wife of my bosom, a mere daughter of fashion, 
a devotee of the world. I resisted the spell, though I still 
kept within the sphere of the enchantress. It was not till 
your sudden reverse of fortune, that I knew the extent of my 
infatuation. Ah ! little did you imagine, when I coldly 
counselled, and cautiously directed your course of action, 
urging you with the sternness of a stoic, to gird yourself for 
the battle of life, without offering to guard you in the day of 


conflict, tow I longed to fold you in my protecting arms, and 
make my bosom your shield in danger, your pillow in peace. 
But I saw that God had taken you by the hand, to lead you 
through the refiner's fire, and I followed His steps, trembling, 
lest you should sink in the flames kindled to purify your soul. 
Many a time have I been tempted to speak and shorten your 
day of trial ; but so nobly, so heroically did you bear yourself, 
it seemed sacrilege to wish to turn you into a diff"erent path, 
though the one you were treading might be strewed with 
thorns. Bell, I am no young, boyish wooer, raving of love 
and rapture. I am a man, much older than yourself, and 
made of far sterner materials j but such as I am, I love you, 
with a love, strong, and deep, and boundless and enduring/' 

It is doubtful whether any one ever felt happier than Bell, 
while listening to this manly avowal of all she ever wished to 
inspire. But the fervour of his manner was so chastened by 
solemnity, so subdued by tenderness, that she wept, even 
while her heart was aching from the oppression of its joy — we 
should rather say, because of that strange fullness and oppres- 

In the mean time, Frank and Hose stood by the spring, 
shaded by the prettiest little arbour in the world. 

" Rose V exclaimed Frank, with all the straightforwardness 
and impetuosity of his nature, "only tell me one thing. 
Don't trifle with me. Don't keep me in suspense — for I can- 
not bear it. Are you going to marry Mr. Urvin ?" 

" Certainly not, unless he asks me," she replied, with a 
provoking smile, ''but tell me by what right you presume to 
ask me such unwarrantable questions ?" When, seeing the 
tragic expression of his countenance, she added, with a gentle, 
earnest gravity — 

^' I love Mr. Urvin as my elder brother, esteem him as my 
best friend, and revere him as my generous, my noble bene- 
factor. He regards me with a kind of parental interest, as 
the adopted child of his sister, whom he most dearly loved. 
You see what he has done for my father. This beautiful cot- 
tage, with all the comforts and luxuries it contains, he pre- 
sented to me, that my father might receive as my gift, what 
he would not accept from another hand. I should be the 
most ungrateful of human beings, if I did not revere him 

next to my Grod. But as for love " She paused, smiled, 

and stooping down, scooped some of the gushing water in the 


hollow of her hand, and scattered it in diamonds oyer his 

This playful^ graceful act did more to put Frank at his ease, 
than a multitude of words could do. 

^' One question more," cried he, emboldened by her gayety. 
" Could you, do you, will you, love such a poor, good-for- 
nothing fellow as myself? A little while ago I could have 
laid a fortune at your feet — now I am poor. I dare not ask 
you to share my poverty, but if you could only love me one 
millionth part as much as I love you, I should be inspired to 
do the work of a thousand giants. I would be a second Midas, 
and transmute everything into gold, by the divine alchemy of 
love. I would wait and serve like another Jacob, thinking 
the days hours, and the hours minutes, for the exceeding love 
I bear you.'' 

" But, supposing, as we are both poor, we should labour 
hand in hand, and not wait as long as Jacob did V cried Rose, 
with a most beautiful blush. 

" Do you say that. Rose V exclaimed Frank. " Heaven 
bless you, Rose. I don't deserve — I can hardly bear so much 
happiness !" 

In the ecstasy of his joy, he was about to throw his arms 
around her, when a fresh shower of diamonds sparkled in his 
face and blinded his eyes. 

'^If you would have peace, there must be space between 
us," said she, laughing at the twinkling of his eyes, as he shook 
the bright drops from his hair. " Come, let us go back to the 
house. It is rude in me to leave your sister so long." 

^'Tell me first, if I must be a farmer. Rose." 

^' What are you now ?" 

"A lawyer by profession, a clerk by necessity." 

^' You had better consult Mr. Urvin." 

"But," exclaimed Frank suddenly, with a clouded counte- 
nance, " I forgot one thing — you are rich — you are an heiress. 
Mr. Urvin said he intended to settle half his fortune on you." 

" I desire no fortune," interrupted Rose, " I would not accept 
it if it were offered. I am richer now than my hopes, as afflu- 
ent as my wishes. I am only poor in words to speak my 
heart's immeasurable content." 

And she yielded her hand with charming grace to Frank, 
whose usually merry eyes actually glistened as he received it. 

Does any one care to hear how well Farmer Mayfield looked, 
in his Sunday clothes, presiding at the dinner table, and 


carving the roasted turkey witli bis strong brown hands? 
What delicious curds and cream were served by the fair hands 
of Rose, and what happy faces shone around that simple, 
hospitable board ? Perhaps the farmer did most of the eating 
himself, as labour creates appetite and sentiment destroys it, 
but no one cares for that. 

Does any one care to know how Mrs. Raymond became 
reconciled to the marriage of her son with the farmer's 
daughter ? and how she exulted in securing, at last, the rich 
and distinguished Mr. Urvin as her son-in-law ? 

There is something so repulsive in her character, we would 
rather say nothing more about her, regretting that the paradise 
of Bell's happy home should be marred by so ungenial an 

Mr. Urvin, with a delicacy only equalled by his munificence, 
settled the fortune on Frank he had intended for Rose, thus 
enabling him to return to the profession for which nature had 
most eminently qualified him. 

There is one circumstance connected with Mrs. Raymond 
which we forgot to mention, or we would not refer to her 

Every Sunday, Mr. Urvin invited Farmer Mayfield to dine 
with him, and had he been the Chief Magistrate of the land, 
he could not have treated him with more respectful attention. 
On this day, Frank and Rose were also regularly invited guests. 
It was a happy family meeting, but the farmer's presence 
always gave Mrs. Raymond a sick headache, and she was 
generally obliged to keep her room, and this necessity never 
seemed to damp the spirits of the household. 

Poor Mrs. Raymond ! 





" Oh ! that uncle would forgive him V 

Thus ejaculated a young girl, as she sat, with her hands 
folded over her knees, by the side of a waning fire. 

'^ What a sad, sad evening this has been to me, though all 
the while I have been compelled to smile and look happy I" 

There was certainly nothing in the apartment in which she 
was seated that seemed congenial with sadness. It was a large 
and splendidly illuminated room, richly carpeted and furnished, 
and, from the flowers, which not only decorated the vases, but 
hung in gay festoons around the walls, it had evidently been 
adorned for some festive occasion. Rare and beautiful flowers 
they were, mostly green-house blossoms, relieved by the dark 
evergreens with which they were entwined, for the flowers of 
summer were long since faded and gone. 

Though the fire, by which the young girl was seated, was 
now nothing more than a heap of glowing embers, it had 
lately burned with intense heat, so that every corner of that 
large apartment was filled with the genial warmth of the tropic 
latitudes. The dress of the young girl, who sat so lonely and 
dejected in the midst of those gay garlands, was in keeping 
with the festive "character of the scene. A robe of white 
gauze, falling in transparent folds over a rich under-dress of 
satin, gave that gossamer grace to her figure which airy drapery 
alone can impart. A wreath of white roses — mimic, it is 
true, but so exquisitely natural one could almost see the petals 
curl and tremble amidst the tresses they adorned — was bound 

(81) ^ 

82 PERCY; OR, 

around her brow, confining the light-brown ringlets which fell, 
unshorn and untutored, even to her waist. What a contrast 
her gala dress and mournful attitude presented ! That floral 
garland, and those sad, dark blue eyes, all swimming in tears ! 
She looked wistfully at the clock. Its solemn, continuous 
ticking, sounded mournfully in the solitude. It was a machine 
of elegant workmanship, representing, on its gilded pedestal, 
one of the most interesting scenes in the history of the Iloratii 
and Curiatii. Directly in the foreground the father of the 
Horatii was standing with an air pf stern majesty, the swords 
of his three sons grasped in his right hand, which he was 
elevating towards Heaven. He seemed to be consecrating 
those warlike weapons to a holy purpose, and calling down 
the blessing of the gods on the enterprise to which he had 
devoted his sons. The dignity, the inflexibility of the Roman, 
spoke in every lineament. One could read on those firm and 
nobly-formed lips the spirit that dictated the magnanimous 
expression, " Qu' il moiiriit," when he believed his last survi- 
ving son a fugitive and a coward. There was a fascination in 
that figure to her, whose eyes were now gazing upon it. The 
light of the lamps glittered on its surface, and it came out 
resplendently in its lustre. She thought of Roman fathers — 
how stern and inflexible they were — of Brutus, the avenging 
judge of his own sons; of Manlius, condemning to an igno- 
minious death the brave and gallant youth who had come to 
lay the trophies of his valour at his father's feet. 

" Oh ! that fathers should be so stern and unforgiving !" 
she exclaimed, the image of an unrelenting American father 
resting darkly on her remembrance. 

The door opened very slowly and gently — so slowly that it 
seemed turning on invisible hinges — and a young man, wrap- 
ped in a dark travelling cloak, with his hat deeply shading his 
brows, stood on the threshold. 

^^ Ella," uttered he, in a low voice ; and the young girl 
started as if touched with electric fire. 

" Oh ! Claude, Claude, is it you V^ she cried, and the next 
moment, regardless of the roses she was crushing, the beautiful 
gauze folds she was disordering, she was weeping on his 
shoulder, half-enveloped in the folds of that dark, heavy cloak. 

'^ How pale you are, dear Claude,'^ she at length exclaimed, 
" and how cold !'^ and, drawing him gently to the fire, she 
assisted him to unclasp his cloak ; and, then stirring the dying 
embers till they glowed with cheering redness, she sat down 


by Ms side, and, taking his chilled hand in hers, gazed 
earnestly in his face. 

" How beautiful you are to-night, Ella I" said he ; " and 
how adorned I" he added, in a tone of bitterness. 

'^ This is all mockery — nothing but mockery," cried she, 
pulling off the roses from her hair, and casting them at her 
feet. " They dressed me for my birth-day ball, and I was com- 
pelled to submit. Uncle would have it so, and I could not 
help hoping he intended to make this a night of reconciliation 
and joy. Oh ! that he were less kind to me, or less cruel to 
you. I want to hate him, and he will not let me." 

" I have deserved punishment for folly and disobedience — 
sin, if they will have it so — but banishment from home, 
banishment from you, Ella — oh ! it is hard. I am not a 
second Cain, that I should be driven, an alien, from my 
father's house." 

And the youth rose up suddenly, and walked about the 
room, struggling with his wretchedness. 

" Yes, I must go, never to return. In little more than an 
hour from this I shall be wending my way, I know not, care 
not whither. Disowned, banished, threatened with maledic- 
tion if I remain longer near the home I have disgraced, I care 
not what becomes of me. Fool, maniac that I have been, I 
might have anticipated all this — I might have known that I 
had a Roman father to deal with. But, thoughtless of the 
past, reckless of the future, I have rushed on to ruin. Ella, 
my cousin, my sister, my more than sister, can I, must I part 
from you ?" 

" No, no, no," she cried, clinging to him as if her arms had 
power to shield him from the doom that hung over him, " you 
shall not go. Your father cannot mean it. He does not will 
it. I will go to him this moment, and, rousing him from his 
night-sleep, I will kneel, weep, pray before him, till he relent 
and forgive. How dares he think of sleep when he has made 
us both so wretched? Come with me, Claude; kneel and 
pray with me. He cannot resist our united prayers." 

'' It is in vain, Ella," he answered, a dark shadow gathering 
over his face ; "I have already humbled myself in the dust 
before him, and he spurned me. Never again, even to my 
own father, will I degrade myself thus. I would meet banish- 
ment, poverty, suffering, even death itself, before I would 
expose myself a second time to such humiliation. Nay, Ella^ 
put down that lamp ; you cannot avert my doom." 

84 PERCY; OR, 

But Ella would not hear. With the lamp glimmering in her 
hand, and her white silvery-looking robes fluttering like the wings 
of a snowy bird, she flew rather than ran up the long winding 
stairs, that led to the chamber of Mr. Percy. In her excite- 
ment, she forgot to open the door softly, and it swung heavily 
on the hinges. Mr. Percy was not asleep. How could he 
sleep, when he had doomed his only son to banishment ? No ! 
his was the restless couch and the thorny pillow : but his was 
also the unconquerable will — the proud, unyielding temper. 
The decree had gone forth, and he would not change it, though 
his heart-strings should snap in the struggle. 

Raising himself on his elbow, he gazed with a bewildered 
countenance on the youthful intruder. A strange apparition 
in the chamber of that stern, dark man ! Ilich curtains of 
crimson damask shaded the bed, and threw a kind of glow on 
the pale and haggard countenance of the occupant. His com- 
plexion looked still more sallow in contrast with the snowy 
white of the pillow, and under the shadow of the sable hair, 
as yet only partially threaded with silver, that hung over his 
temples. Ella threw herself on her knees by the bed-side, 
and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. His conscience 
told him her errand, and he spoke to her in a harsh, hurried 
tone : 

" What is the meaning of this ? I like not to be disturbed. 
I have tried to make you happy to-night. Go away, child, 
and let me sleep.'' Sleep ! she could have said : 

*' There's a voice in all the house 
Cries, * Sleep no more — Macbeth has murdered sleep.' " 

" Oh ! uncle, forgive Claude and let him stay ; I cannot 
see him go ; I shall die of grief, if you cast him away from 
you. You cannot be in earnest, uncle ; you are only trying 
him. Say so, and I will bless you on my knees, till the 
latest day of my life." 

" Do I look like a jesting man ?" cried he, drawing away 
the hand she had grasped in the energy of speaking. '' I am 
indeed in earnest, as that unhappy boy will soon know to his 

" Oh ! uncle, he has sufi'ered enough already ; you know 
he has. Had he committed murder, forgery, any crime, you 
might have disowned him ; but " 

*' Crime !" repeated the indignant father, sweeping back the 


curtain with one hand, and with the other pushing away the 
heavy locks from his brow, while his eyes flashed luridly. 
^' Had he committed murder in the madness of passion, I 
could have forgiven him, and kept him near my heart, though 
his hand were reddened with blood. Had he committed for- 
gery in a moment of temptation, I could have forgiven even 
that. But to go against warning and command — to herd with 
a company of vile vagabonds — to follow them to their haunts 
of wickedness — to adopt their profession — to become one 
among them, heart and soul — to suffer his name, my name — 
the name of Percy — to be placarded in every corner of the 
street, for the vulgar to gaze upon, and the wise to sneer at — 
the author of such a disgrace never shall be forgiven. Away, 
and disturb me no more.'^ 

Ella rose from her knees. The tears seemed frozen in her 
heart. She had entered the chamber with a wrestling spirit 
— the spirit that spoke through Jacob, when he said unto the 
angel, " I will not let thee go, unless thou bless me." Alas ! 
she had no angel to contend with — but a proud, unconquerable 
man — a man whose family pride had received a deep and im- 
medicable wound. With a look of hopeless dejection, of 
sullen, passive endurance, she turned from that sleepless bed 
of down, and descended the winding stairs. She was no 
longer the bird, winging its upward flight. She was the 
snail, dragging itself wearily along. The spring of hope was 
gone, and a leaden weight held back her steps. 

"I told you so,^' said Claude, turning of ashy paleness j for, 
in spite of his assertion to the contrary, he had cherished a 
secret hope from her intercession. "I told you, you would 
plead in vain.'' 

Ella, overpowered by disappointment and sorrow, leaned in 
tearless anguish on the shoulder of Claude, who pressed her 
in silence to his breast. She felt that deadly sickness of soul, 
which precedes the final separation from the object most 
loved on earth. They had been brought up under the same 
roof, protected by the same guardian — both were brotherless 
and sisterless — how could they help loving each other ? 

'^'Oh! that I were a boy,'' she cried; 'Hhen I would go 
with you, Claude, preferring poverty and exile with you, 
to all you leave behind. I would share all your trials ; and 
heavy ones will they be, poor Claude ! Whither will you go ? 
What will you do ? But promise me, Claude, whatever you 

86 PERCY; OR, 

do, you will never go back to scenes my uncle so much 
abhors. He will yet pardon and recall you — I feel, I know, 
he will/^ 

"No, Ella, there is no hope of that; but be assured, to 
whatever extremities I may be driven, I shall never resort to 
that expedient. If you ever hear of me again, it shall be 
with honourable mention. Whither I shall go, what I shall 
do, I know not. I shall just float along the tide of circum- 
stances, and perchance the wanderer may find some green spot 
to rest upon. I do not fear want, for my father's son has not 
been sent away entirely destitute. I shall work out my own 
destiny, and something tells me, that in manhood, I shall re- 
deem the fciults and follies of my youth. Ella, dear Ella, do 
not weep so bitterly ! I am not worthy such tears. In this 
moment, I feel all the madness of which I have been guilty. 
I do not wonder that my father disowns me. I deserve to 
be an outcast. '^ 

The clock struck one. Claude started, as if a knell tolled 
on his ear. It was the signal for his departure — for the stage 
that was to bear him away, must even then be waiting at the 
hotel, where his trunks were already carried. 

'^ You will write to me, Claude; wherever you may be, you 
will write and tell me of your welfare ? Kemember it will be 
all I shall live for now." 

"Yes, Ella, as soon as I find a home." His voice fal- 
tered with deep emotion. " One promise, Ella : be kind, 
be loving still to my father. Do not resent my banishment; 
and should Nature resume its empire in his heart, and he re- 
member with sorrow his alien son, then comfort him, Ella, for 
my sake. Tell him that I love him still, and that my life's 
struggle shall be to prove myself worthy of the name I bear. 
Farewell, Ella ! sister, cousin, friend, dearer, a thousand times 
dearer, than all these precious names to my heart — but how 
dear, I never knew till this bitter moment." 

Incapable of speaking, Ella lay sobbing in his arms. Stoop- 
ing down, he kissed the pale cheek that rested almost uncon- 
sciously on his breast, while hot, scalding tears, that could no 
longer be repressed, gushed from his eyes. To leave the home 
of his father, the companion of his childhood, to go out into 
the cold world, friendless and alone, not knowing what ills he 
must endure, with what storms he must battle, with what ene- 
mies he must contend — and to feel, too, that all this was the 
consequence of his own disobedience and folly — it was a bit- 


ter, bitter thought. With a desperate effort^ he released him- 
self from the clasp of those fair, clinging arms, placed her 
gently on the sofa, and rushed from the house. The faint 
light of the night lamp in his father's chamber, glimmered 
through the window and streamed across his path. The un- 
happy youth paused. It seemed that all beyond that ray was 
darkness and desolation ; and yet it threw a solitary gleam 
of brightness on the parting h^our. It might be an omen of 
future forgiveness. Softened, melted into even womanly ten- 
derness, and filled with remorse at the memory of his dis- 
obedience, he knelt on that illuminated spot, and bowed his 
head in penitence and humility, even as if he were prostrated 
at his father's feet. 

" Father, Ella, farewell,'' he cried, and starting up, dashed 
the tears from his eyes, and became a wanderer from his native 

And what was the offence for which he was thus suffering so 
severe a penalty ? To explain this^ we must go back to Claude's 
earlier youth. 


Mr. Percy was a man of sovereign aristocracy. He had 
the three-fold aristocracy of birth, wealth, and talents. The 
very name of Percy had an ancestral sound, and breathed of 
noble blood. Called to sit in the high places of the land, and 
to act a conspicuous part in his country's capital, he had but 
little leisure to devote to the education of his son, who was 
the object of his pride, even more than his affection. He was 
an only son, and consequently the future representative of 
his name and fame ; and, as if Nature, in this instance, was 
determined to gratify, to the utmost, a father's pride, she had 
endowed the youth with her most splendid gifts. Of extra- 
ordinary personal beauty, brilliant talents, the most graceful 
and engaging manners, in the brightness of life's morning 
hours he gave promise of a glorious noon. At college, he 
was called the admirable Crichton, so wonderful was the ver- 
satility of his talents, the ease with which he could master 
the most difficult and abstruse sciences. 


Mr. Percy exulted in the reputation of his son, hut he knew 
nothing of his heart. He had not time for that. Proud, cold, 
dignified, and reserved, his demeanor repelled the sunny spiril 
of Claude. It played over the cold, polished surface of hi? 
father's character, like sunbeams on steel. The heart was re- 
pelled — the light only received. The only person who really 
knew the heart of Claude, was his young cousin, Ella, the 
orphan child of Mr. Percy's youngest and favourite sister. 
The young Ella, too, was the only one who had found the 
avenue to the warm corner of Mr. Percy's pride-mailed bosom. 
She, alone, dared to sport with this august personage. As 
the young vine, frolicking round the ancient oak — the bright, 
tender moss enamelling the cold, dark rock — she twined her- 
self round the pillar of his pride, and made it beautiful with 
the garland of innocence and youth. She was so confiding, 
so loving, and so gay, she must have something to love and 
play about ; and when Claude was absent at college, and her 
uncle resting from his official duties, it was a necessity of 
her ardent nature to lavish upon him the tenderness that was well- 
ing in her heart. But during the long vacations, when Claude 
was restored to his home, what a paradise it was to her ! To 
say that she loved her cousin, would convey but a faint idea 
of the feelings she cherished for him. It was more than love; 
it was worship — idolatry — which, though indulged with all 
the innocence and unconsciousness of childhood, and expressed 
with all the ingenuousness of a sister's affection, had, never- 
theless, all the strength and intensity of passion.' 

During the long holidays, Claude, whose spirits often wildly 
effervesced, '^ sought out many inventions" to wing away the 
hours. One of his favourite amusements was to get up private 
theatricals, in which Ella and himself acted very distinguished 
parts. He was a passionate lover of the drama, and, with a 
wonderful power of imitation, could catch the tones, looks, and 
gestures of the heroes of the stage. It is not to be supposed 
that these scenes were enacted in the presence of the stately 
Mr. Percy — but, after supper, he generally went abroad, and 
they had ample scope for their dramatic taste. All the old 
family trunks were ransacked for their stage costume, and 
most ancestral-looking garments were brought forth, and, with 
a little modification, converted into royal robes, and the proper 
paraphernalia of Melpomene and Thalia. Their young friends 
delighted to gather on these occasions, and never did more 
spontaneous applause shake with thundering echoes the walls 


of Castle Garden, than resounded through the hall they had 
selected for their theatrical exhibitions. 

Ella 'sometimes objected to Claude's choice of characters, 
and, though he was rather despotic, he was obliged to submit 
to her caprice or judgment. He must not take the part of 
King Lear, as it made him look too old and crazy ', he must 
not be Othello, for it would be too horrible to blacken and 
disfigure his beautiful face ; but Romeo — the handsome, youth- 
ful, and impassioned Romeo — that was the character which, 
more than all others, she loved to see him perform. With 
his cap, shaded with long, white feathers, drooping over his 
classic brow, his dark-brown waving hair so romantically 
arranged, and his eyes beaming with all the poetry of love, 
nothing could be so graceful and beautiful as Claude. 

Ella made a bewitching little Juliet, but she often forgot 
her character in admiration of Claude ; and, even in the vaults 
of the Capulets, when her eyes should have seemed sealed in 
everlasting slumber, the dark-blue orbs would furtively open 
to gaze upon her Romeo. Little did they think that these 
gala evenings of their youth were to change the whole colour 
of their destiny. 

Once, when Claude was representing Macbeth in all his 
majesty, and the servants, dressed like witches, with long 
brooms, were dancing round a large marble basin, which was 
supposed to a boiling cauldron, where many an " eye of gnat 
and tongue of toad'' were simmering and cooking; and Ella, 
with a regal-looking turban surmounting her childish head, 
was peeping behind a long, green curtain — the door opened, 
and Mr. Percy entered. The Ghost of Banquo, with his gory 
locks and blood-stained brow, rising up at the royal banquet, 
was not more appalling than this unexpected apparition. The 
crimson turban of Lady Macbeth plunged into the darkness 
of the curtain, the servants scampered away, dropping their 
brooms as they ran. Claude alone stood his ground, like a 
king, and confronted, with undaunted mien, his father's 
wrathful glance. 

What a scene for the ultra-majestic statesman ! who never 
deviated from the perpendicular line of formality in the most 
common affairs of life — whose household concerns were always 
conducted with the severest accuracy and the most rigid dis- 
cipline — and who, above all, had the most sovereign contempt 
and aversion for theatrical exhibitions. 

"What is the meaning of this vulgar revelry — this scene 

90 PERCY ; OR; 

of tumult and chaos ?" exclaimed he, in a voice like loTf 
thunder. " How dare you, young man, convert your father's 
hall into a scene of theatrical riot?'' 

Giving the marble basin a violent push, that, heavy as it 
was, sent it whizzing across the floor, he approached his offend- 
ing son, but, forgetting the witches' brooms in the way, the 
stately statesman nearly stumbled to the ground. This gave 
the crown to his anger, and it was terrible to behold. But 
Claude's dauntless spirit quailed not. He was not afraid of 
his father, or of any human being. He was too ingenuous, 
brave, self-relying, to know aught of " that dark dweller of 
the household," so thrillingly described in Zanoni. As well 
might the sunbeam fear the rock or the ruin on which its 
brightness falls. He stood, with his royal robes folded over 
bis breast — his brow, which " the likeness of a kingly crown 
had on," proudly elevated — and his beautiful, resolute, dark 
eyes, fixed upon his father's face. That look and attitude 
would have made the fortune of a professed actor. 

Poor little Ella could not listen in silence to this denun- 
ciation agciinst her beloved Claude. She rushed from behind 
the curtain, pulling it down in her haste, thus displaying all 
the mysteries of their craft, and, falling on her knees before 
her uncle, exclaimed, with true tragic pathos : 

" Oh, uncle, do not be angry with Claude. I am more to 
blame than he is. I urged him to it — indeed I did. But I 
never dreamed of your coming home, dear uncle — indeed I 
did not." 

" So it is only in my presence you think of conducting with 
propriety, is it ? Go to your room, Ella, this moment : you 
are nothing but a foolish, little girl, and may, perhaps, be 
pardoned, if this prove the last offence. But remember the 
condition — the last 1" 

Lady Macbeth, gathering up her long, sweeping train, stole 
slowly from the room, casting a piteous glance at Claude, 
which changed to vivid admiration as she beheld the bold 
beauty of his countenance. 

, The scene which followed was one in which passion and 
pride struggled for mastery • but pride at length prevailed. 
Mr. Percy felt that it was undignified to scold, and when his 
anger was somewhat abated, he condescended to reason with 
his son. Had he done it more calmly, more gently, he might 
have exercised more influence. But family pride, the idol he 
set up for his worship, Claude cared no more for than the 


image of Nebucliadnezzar's clreanij witli its legs of iron and 
its feet of clay. Mr. Percy commanded him never to enter 
the walls of a theatre — never again to turn the leaves of 
Shakspeare, or to have anything to do with dramatic exhi- 
bitions, either public or private. He deemed this command 
sufficient, for the thought that his positive commands could 
be disobeyed never glanced into his mind. This folly had not 
been anticipated — therefore, not prohibited ; but, once dis- 
covered and forbidden, he felt as if a flaming sword guarded 
the majesty of his law. But, unfortunately, the master pas- 
sion of Claude only gained strength from opposition. His love 
of the drama became a monomania, and, in spite of his stern 
father's prohibition, he not only visited the theatre, but fre- 
quented the green-room, and became acquainted with some 
very dangerous and fascinating characters. One of these, 
who was about to take command of an itinerant company, 
having witnessed a specimen of Claude's astonishing dramatic 
talents, resolved to secure him as the new star of the season. 
It was not without much hesitation that young Claude con- 
sented to take so bold a step, but the tempter was eloquent, 
and his own misguided imagination was a more eloquent 
tempter still. His father was absent on a long journey ; but 
Ella, his sweet cousin Ella, should he leave her, without con- 
fiding to her his secret expedition ? Yes, it must be done ; 
for, were she the confidant of his purpose, she would be the 
sharer of his parental anger, which he well knew would fall 
upon his head, but which he rashly dared to brave. 

The sequel is already known. The wrath of Mr. Percy, 
when he learned, through the public papers, that his son, his 
heir, a Percy, had come before the world as an actor, cannot 
be described. When the young prodigal, weary of the false 
glitter of the artificial life which, in the distance, seemed so 
alluring, dreading reproach and wrath, because he knew he 
merited them, yet confident of ultimate forgiveness, returned 
to his father's house, it was only to be sent forth again in 
banishment and disgrace. The magnificent ball, given on 
Ella's sixteenth birth-day, was celebrated by Mr. Percy's 
orders, in contrast to Claude's degradation. Ella, hoping, be- 
lieving all things, imagined that her uncle had prepared this 
brilliant festival, that he might restore his son to favour, 
without the embarrassment of a private reconciliation. Alas ! 
she knew not the man. 

Let us follow the young exile. Waked. from his feverish 

92 PERCY; OR, 

dream of excitement, he sees, by the cold, gray light of dawn- 
ing reason, the rough realities of the future. Like our first 
parents driven from the garden of Eden, "all the world 
before him lay/^ But, had he taken Providence as his 
guide ? In the sunshine of prosperity he had forgotten its 
guiding cloud, and its pillar of fire went not before him to 
illumine the darkness of his destiny. And very dark tha.' 
destiny now looked to him. He was so young and inex- 
perienced — only nineteen — what could he do ? He never 
once thought of resorting to the stage. His mind, by a 
powerful reaction, wa's now as much repelled from that course 
of life as it had once been attracted to it. He loathed the 
very thought of it. Where should he go ? Uncaring 
whither, he decided to direct his course to Virginia. He had 
a college friend, who lived beyond the Alleghanies, and pos- 
sibly, through him, he might learn of some employment — a pri- 
vate tutorship perhaps. Poor fellow ! He had never learned to 
govern himself — how could he discipline the young minds of 
others ? But Claude resolved to earn his bread by honour- 
able industry, or perish. He looked back with shame upon 
his life of self-indulgence and vanity. He felt that he had 
lived in vain. High and noble thoughts, born of adversity, 
began to spring up and flourish in his bosom. He felt wiser, 
better, stronger. Grreat trials either elevate and purify, or 
crush and sink the character of man. Happy they, who, like 
Claude, have an elastic principle within, that rebounds from 
the pressure which threatened to weigh it down to dust. 

We will not follow the young and deeply reflecting wanderer 
through all the windings of his way ; but we will stop with 
him, at the foot of one of the heaven-ascending Alleghanies, 
and see who lies by that broken, over-turned carriage. Such 
a rough, precipitous, dizzying road — it is no wonder there 
should be runaway horses, broken bones and bruised limbs. 

Claude had jumped from the stage, as he often did, in- 
capable of such long inaction in his present restless and strug- 
gling mood, and was leaping down the craggy mountain path. 
The sight of the shattered vehicle, the groans of the man, 
who was lying partly under the ruins, arrested his step. The 
sufferer was an aged man, with hair of snowy whiteness, and 
features which, in repose, must have expressed benevolence 
and benignity ; but now they were distorted with pain, and, 
from his pallid complexion and ashy lips, it was evident he 
was sinking beneath the weight of his sufferings. Claude, 


seeing a silver cup, seized it, and ran to a clear spring, that 
gurgled within a few feet of the travellers. Beautiful springs 
there are welling at the foot of these great mountains ! He 
bathed the forehead and lips of the aged suiferer, raising his 
head gently on his arm, and smoothing back the white locks, 
all soiled with dust. 

The stranger, restored to consciousness, opened his eyes, 
and beholding a countenance so young, so beautiful, so com- 
passionate, bending over him, he almost imagined an angel 
had been sent down to his relief. Leaning on his elbow, he 
endeavoured to rise, but fell back again with a deep groan. 
One of his limbs was broken, and it was evident he had re- 
ceived some dreadful internal injury. Claude felt that, alone, 
he could not assist the disabled stranger. A house stood at 
a little distance, a log-cabin, where the stage was accustomed 
to stop. His first thought was to run to the cabin, and pro- 
cure assistance — the next to await the coming of the stage, 
whose course he had anticipated, and which, in its thunder- 
ing passage down the hill, might overlook the poor, helpless 
traveller, unless warned of his situation. He acted on this 
last thought, and, with the assistance of the other passengers, 
the stranger was removed to the cabin. Pitiable was the 
situation of the aged sufferer. He was unaccompanied by 
friends"; it was impossible to procure a surgeon, without send- 
ing a great distance, in those lone mountain regions, and the 
house to which he was carried could scarcely furnish him the 
comforts wanting in health. How much more must he feel 
the destitution in his present helpless, suffering, almost dying 
condition ! 

Claude sat by the rude couch, on which he was placed, hold- 
ing a glass of wine, which ever and anon he applied to his 
lips, trying to cheer him by kind and encouraging words. He 
told him that a messenger had been despatched for a surgeon, 
and that he would remain with him till all danger was past. 

" But the stage is already at the door,^^ said the old man, 
feebly, " and you must depart. I cannot take advantage of 
your kindness to a stranger.'^ 

But Claude would not leave him. The stage-horn blew 
loud and musically, the passengers hurried to their seats, the 
driver vociferated that all was ready, and still Claude held 
the old man's hand and refused to depart. The heart of the 
banished son yearned towards the venerable stranger. New 
feelings were awakened within him. It was the first time he 

94 PERCY; OR, 

had witnessed human suffering, and he knew not, till this 
moment, what a deep fountain of pity lay in the unexplored 
regions of his heart. But the angel had stepped into the pool, 
and the waters were troubled. Mr. Montague (such was the 
stranger's name) resisted no longer the generous sacrifice of 

" Heaven bless you, my son V was all he could utter. 

Claude sighed. How sweet, yet mournful, sounded that 
name to his ear ! He thought he had heard it for the last 
time, and it awoke ten thousand thrilling remembrances. 

All night Claude watched by his bed-side, endeavouring to 
mitigate the excruciating pain that racked his frame almost to 
dissolution. The inmates of the house were kind but rough 
people, and Mr. Montague evidently shrunk from their minis- 
trations. The bed was hard, the pillows low, and the sheets, 
though of snowy whiteness, of exceedingly coarse linen. The- 
wintry wind whistled through the log-built walls, and no 
curtains protected the invalid from the blast. The windows, 
destitute of glass, were nothing but openings, closed by wooden 
shutters, which, occasionally loosening, flapped to and fro, 
with a mournful, creaking sound. There was nothing cheer- 
ful in the aspect of the room, but the bright, all-illuminating 
pine blaze, that rolled up the immense chimney, reflecting its 
glow on a sable figure that sat nodding on the hearth, on the 
pallid face and snowy locks of the aged, and the bright hair 
of the young that mingled with it as it swept against the 
pillow. Such was the apartment and scene, in which the 
luxuriantly-bred and self-indulging Claude served his first 
apprenticeship at the couch of sufi"ering. Often, during the 
stillness of the night, he would start and tremble with awe, 
as the sufierer, in the extremity of his agony, would call upon 
his Saviour a,nd his Grod to help him, in the time of trouble. 

" Forsake me not, my God ! Be not far from me ! Make 
haste to help me, Lord, my salvation ! In the day of my 
trouble I will call upon thee— for thou wilt answer me.'' 

It was the first time that Claude had heard the voice of 
prayer, save from the sacred desk. But then he listened to 
it as a formula proper for the Sabbath, and the God thus 
addressed seemed very far off. There was something awful 
in being thus made to feel His presence in that lonely cham- 
ber — in being brought so very near Him by the prayer of faith, 
mingling with the groans of agony. His earthly father had 
cast him off. Had he indeed a Father in Heaven, who would 
receive the returning prodigal ? 



Late the next morning the surgeon arrived. The inflam- 
mation, caused by such protracted suffering, made it a very- 
dangerous case, and for many days Mr. Montague lingered on 
the borders of the grave. Claude would have written to his 
friends, but the speechless lips of the sufferer could give no 
directions ; and all that the young man could do was to watch 
by his couch, and await the issues of life and death. At length 
the inflammation subsided, and the patient was pronounced 
out of immediate danger. Then Claude, at his request, wrote 
to Mr. Vane, his son-in-law, who resided with him, near one 
of the large towns of the Old Dominion, several days' journey 
from the mountain-cabin. A week must elapse, at the shortest 
possible calculation, before any of his family could arrive. In 
the mean time, though helpless and suffering from his broken 
limb, he gradually revived, and seemed to derive much pleasure 
from the conversation of his youthful friend. Claude, with 
the ingenuousness of youth, told him all his history. 

" Poor boy ! poor boy !" cried Mr. Montague, moved even 
to tears ; " so young and inexperienced ! I will be a father 
to you ; I have no son of my own ; and you shall be the son 
of my adoption. I owe my life to your care, and am selfish 
enough to rejoice that Providence has opened a way in which 
I can show my gratitude, and pay, though but in a small 
degree, a debt so large. Oh, my dear boy, I will carry you 
to a happy home, where all is love, and peace, and joy. You 
shall have a sister, too, in my granddaughter — my sweet, 
sweet Mary. How happy she will be to have a companion 
whom she will love as a brother V 

Claude bent his head on the old man's hand, and a tear 
moistened the dry and feverish skin. 

" Think me not ungrateful, sir — but I cannot eat the bread 
of dependence. '^ 

" Fear not ; I will only put you in the way of earning an 
independent subsistence. You shall study law with Mr. Vane, 
if you like the profession. In the mean time you can give 
my Mary lessons in French and drawing, and thus make a 
compromise with pride. Deny me not, my son, for my heart 

96 PERCY; OR, 

clings to thee, and refuses to be separated from tliee. I see 
the hand of Providence in this. Disowned by him who gave 
you birth, Grod has sent you to watch, with all a son's devo- 
tion, by my lonely pillow, and to be cherished in a bosom that 
feels for you already all a father's tenderness and love.'^ 

He opened his arms with a benign smile, and Claude felt as 
if he were indeed clasped to the bosom of a father. That 
night he wrote to Ella that he had found a home — a father ; 
he had no longer a dark and aimless existence, but a future 
illumined by hope and promise ; she must no longer mourn 
for the banished Romeo ; bright days were yet in store, when 
love and faith and constancy would meet their reward. 

What a change was made in that log-cabin by the arrival 
of Mr. Montague's family ! He was a rich Southern planter, 
and had all the appliances of wealth and the refinements of 
luxury to grace his home. Downy beds, soft cushions, and 
rich curtains were all brought for the comfort of the invalid, 
as well as every delicacy that could please the taste and tempt 
the appetite. Mr. Vane was a noble specimen of a Virginia 
gentleman — his wife a fair, gentle, interesting-looking lady • 
but Mary — sweet Mary — how lovely she looked, clinging* like 
a fair garland, round the neck of her aged grandfather ! How 
angelic the expression of her soft, dark eyes ! how delicate the 
lilies of her cheek ! Not even the faintest tiut of red was 
visible on that beauteous cheek : it seemed too pure, too holy 
for the breath of human passion to pass over it. 

" Ah, dear grandfather !" she cried, smoothing away his 
long, silky hair, and kissing his pale forehead, " you should 
not have crossed the mountains alone 3 you know how hard I 
pleaded to bear you company." 

" These young arms could hardly have checked the fiery 
horses," cried he, fondly returning her affectionate caresses. 
*' I believe I was wrong; but when we are very young, or very 
old, we are apt to be too self-relying and independent. Had 
not my driver fallen sick, so that I had to leave him and trust 
to the guidance of a stranger, this accident would not have 
overtaken me. But it is all right, and will prove a blessing 
to us all. It has given a dear young son to my old age, and 
a friend and brother to my gentle Mary." 

Mary's dove-like eyes turned to him with a look of unutter- 
able softness. They seemed to say, " My heart yearns for a 
brother ; have I found one in thee ?" 

Claude was welcomed into this interesting family with ex- 


pressions of tlie most cordial affection. His filial cares to the 
beloved father of the household were repaid with unbounded 
gratitude. Claude thought that never was kindness that cost 
so little, so richly remunerated. It was no sacrifice to him to 
linger by the wayside, and, while he administered comfort and 
assistance, drink in words of heavenly wisdom that strength- 
ened and renovated his soul. This he repeated again and 
again ; but Mr. Yane would thank him — his gentle wife would 
bless him — and Mary's melting glance would express a thou- 
sand grateful meanings. The sunny spirit of Claude began 
to sparkle once more, for the cloud which had gathered so 
darkly over him had " turned a silver lining to the night.'' 

Mr. and Mrs. Yane returned home in a few days, for she 
had young children that required her care ; but Mary remained 
with her grandfather, and shared with Claude the ofiice of 
nurse. It would be weeks before his broken limb would be 
healed so as to admit of travelling; and, during that time, the 
mountain-cabin seemed changed to a fairy grotto, and Mary 
the presiding sylph, who breathed a spell on everything around 
her. Mr. Montague was so much better that he could sit, 
propped up in bed for hours, reading; and then Claude and 
Mary would ramble about the woods in search of evergreens 
to decorate the walls, or moss from the gray old rocks. It 
was winter, and no gay, sweet flower peeped forth from the 
green underwood ; but Mary was such a lover of nature that 
she would wander abroad if there was nothing to look upon 
but the clear blue heavens, and " the grand old woods." She 
had brought her guitar, for Mr. Montague loved Mary's singing 
better than any music in the world^ and Mary did not like to 
sing without an accompaniment. But she had an accompani- 
ment now sweeter than any instrument, and that was the voice 
of Claude — the clearest, richest, most melodious voice that 
ever warbled from human lips. It was astonishing to hear 
such music as they made, gushing through the chinks of that 
old log-cabin. 

When Mr. Montague was tired of sitting up and reading 
himself, he would lean back on his couch, and Mary and 
Claude would take turns in reading aloud. Every night before 
he fell asleep, they would read a chapter in the Bible ; and 
Claude thought the poetry of Shakspeare less beautiful than 
the minstrelsy of David, breathed from the sweet lips of Mary 

What would poor Ella have thought^ who was mourning in 


desolation of soul for her banislied cousin, and whom she de- 
picted to herself as a forlorn and heart-broken wanderer, could 
she have seen him thus closely domesticated with this angelic 
young creature, associated in such an endearing task, and 
bound by such tender and near-drawing ties ? And was he 
in danger of forgetting Ella — the companion of his childhood — 
the generous, devoted, fond, and faithful Ella ? No ! the 
presence of Mary only brought her, by the force of contrast, 
more vividly and constantly to his remembrance. Hers was 
the changing cheek and lightning glance that spoke of the 
quick-flowing blood and the electric spirit; Mary's, the pearl- 
white skin, and the soft, heavenly, prayerful eye, that reminded 
one of a beauty not of this world. Ella was the loveliest of 
the daughters of earth, and he loved her with youth's first, 
warmest passion; Mary, an image of the angels of Heaven, 
whom he could worship and adore as a guardian saint. No ! 
in Mary's presence he loved Ella with a holier, deeper love, 
for she awoke all that was pure and holy in his nature. It 
was only the poetry of nursing that devolved on Claude and 
Mary. All the drudgery, if such it could be called, where all 
seemed a labour of love, was performed by a negro servant — 
an old and attached slave — who had come to take care of her 
old master. It was affecting to see with what tenderness, 
reverence, and devotion, she watched over him ; what motherly 
kindness and love she manifested for her sweet young mistress ! 
Mrs. Vane would hardly have been willing to have left Mary 
with- her helpless grandfather, and this fascinating young 
stranger, had it not been for the guardianship of this faithful 
and intelligent creature. 

The log-cabin was deserted, and the evergreen wreaths hung 
withering on the walls. Mr. Montague returned to his home, 
still an invalid, but able to walk, supported by the arm of a 
friend. It was a beautiful scene ! The return of the Christian 
master — the affectionate father — the beloved patriarch — to his 
own dwelling ! To see the rows of negroes, with smiling ivory 
gleaming white through their sable lips, looking so happy, so 
respectful, standing each side of the avenue that led to the 
noble mansion, ready to welcome home their almost worshipped 
master ; to see him bending his venerable head, with such a 
benign smile, and taking these humble, affectionate creatures, 
so kindly by the hand, asking after their welfare, and blessing 
Grod that he was permitted to return to them once more ! 
Whoever had witnessed this scene would have been convinced 


that the bond that hinds the master and the slave, is not 
always an iron bond, and that beautiful flowers of gratitude 
and affection may be made to flourish in the dark bosom of 
the negro. Warm was the welcome they gave the " young 
master/^ who was established at once as an adopted son in this 
abode of princely hospitality. He immediately commenced 
his studies with Mr. Yane, and his instructions to Mary. By 
day, an indefatigable student ; at night, the teacher of his 
lovely adopted sister. 

Days, weeks, and months, glided away. Mr. Montague 
noticed, with anxiety, that Claude's brow wore a saddened 
expression, and his cheek a paler hue. Alas ! he began to 
feel the withering fear that he was forgotten by Ella, as well 
as disowned by his father. He had written again and again 
to the first, telling her where to direct her replies ; and once 
he had written to his father — not to a5k for restoration to 
favour — not to supplicate for his forfeited place in his heart 
and home — but to tell him of the friends he had found, the 
profession he had chosen, and the solemn resolution he had 
formed to make himself worthy of the name of Percy — so 
that, in future years, when his "reformation, glittering o'er 
his fault," should efface its shadow from remembrance, he 
would dare to claim his esteem as a man, though he had 
alienated his affection as a son. In this high-toned, manly 
spirit, wrote the banished youth ; and yet no reply was vouch- 
safed by the inflexible father — no answer came from the once 
loving and devoted cousin. Had not the heart of Claude been 
shielded by a prior attachment, that was entwined with every 
fibre of his being, he could not have been insensible to the 
almost celestial loveliness of Mary. Nor was he insensible. 
She was to him the incarnation of all that was pure and holy 
— -the sister of his soul — the star of his spiritual heaven. But 
Ella was 

"A creature not too bright nor good 
For human nature's daily food — 
For transient sorrow, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles." 

But Mary, though she had the face of an angel, had the 
heart of a woman — which, though it sent no blushing heralds 
to the cheek, throbbed wildly and warmly with newly awakened 
emotions. In the solitude of that mountain cabin, the light 
of a new existence had begun to dawn upon her, and that light 


had grown brighter and brighter, till it enveloped her spirit, 
as with a glory. 

Thus two years had passed away. The letters of Claude 
still remained unanswered, and, with a freezing sense of her 
heartlessness and inconstancy, he tried to forget the Juliet of 
his boyish imagination. He was assisted in this by a solemn 
scene, in which he was made an actor. 

The aged grandfather lay upon his death-bed. He had 
never recovered from the effects of the accident, which led to 
the adoption of the banished Claude. Threescore-years-and- 
ten had left their snows upon his head, without withering the 
blood of his heart. But death was now near, and the warmest 
heart grows cold at his touch. Once — when it was believed 
he slept, and Mary and Claude sat by his bed-side, as they 
had often done in the mountain cabin — he opened his eyes 
and gazed upon them both so earnestly and wistfully, that 
they involuntarily drew nearer to him, and asked him what 
he desired. 

" My children," said he, in feeble accents, taking a hand of 
each and clasping them in his own, " I am going home. The 
aged pilgrim is about to return to his God. But you young 
travellers, your journey is but just begun. It is a weary 
journey; but, if we go hand in hand with one that loves us, 
the way seems smooth and pleasant to the feet. Mary, my 
darling, you have been the child of my old age — the object 
of many prayers. I die happy; for I know there's one — one, 
whose hand is even now clasped in mine — who will make life 
a sweet pilgrimage to you. Claude, my dear Claude, I know 
you and my sweet Mary love each other ! Both so good — so 
beautiful ! Heaven has made you for each other ! I give 
her to you, Claude, as my dying legacy ; and may the Lord 
be gracious to you, as you are faithful to this holy trust." 

Claude, incapable of utterance, knelt by the side of the 
kneeling Mary. Her hand trembled in his — her eyes, swim- 
ming in tears, for one moment turned towards him, then lifted 
to Heaven, were filled with a love so deep, so pure, yet so im- 
passioned— -a love which, for the first time, she had suffered 
to rise from the depth of her heart free and unchecked — 
sanctioned and hallowed, as it now was, by the blessing of a 
dying saint ! Claude would as soon have disputed the decree 
of Heaven, as the wish of his benefactor. 

The patriarch was gathered to his fathers. The leaves of 


autumn fell upon his grave. "With the flowers of May, Mary's 
bridal garlands were to be woven. 

Thus solemnly betrothed, without any volition of his own, 
Claude was at first oppressed by the most strange and bewilder- 
ing sensations ; but honour, gratitude, and delicacy, all urged 
him to endeavour to transfer to Mary the love he had so long 
cherished for the faithless Ella. He would think of her no 
more. She belonged to the life that was passed — the life of 
vanity, self-indulgence, and pride ; Mary, to that new and 
spiritual life, born of suffering and self-humiliation. 

Mary's cheek had always been as colourless as Parian mar- 
ble. Now a soft, bright rose-tint began to tinge its snow, and 
a lustrous beam was seen playing in the iris of her soft dark 
eye. Claude watched, with deepening tenderness, those bright 
and shifting hues. They humanized, as it were, her too 
spiritual loveliness, and gave her a resemblance to one, whose 
image could never be destroyed. Claude grew happier in the 
consciousness of his increasing love for Mary, but an unac- 
countable sadness seemed to oppress her. Often, when he 
attempted to lead her mind to sweet thoughts of the future, 
she would lean her head in silence on his bosom and WQ^p ; 
and all the time her cheek wore a deeper rose, and her eye a 
more intense lustre. 

One evening — it was a warm, dewy, moonlighted April eve- 
ning-^Mary sat with Claude in the long, pillared piazza. The 
vine-leaves, already in full luxuriance, clustered round the 
pillars, and cast their shadows on Mary's alabaster brow. He 
held one of her hands in his, and they both sat in silence 
looking out into the pale, silvery night. A slight shiver ran 
through Mary's frame. 

" The night air is too damp," said Claude ; for, though she 
shuddered, her hand glowed with feverish heat. "Let us 
go in, Mary, lest a mildew fall to wither the blossoms of my 

" It is so lovely, sitting here in the moonlight !" cried 
Mary, looking upward with a melancholy smile j " and when 
this moon has waxed and waned, and another comes with 
softer, mellower light, who knows if my eyes will be permitted 
to gaze upon its beauty ?" 

" Why speak in so sad a strain, my Mary, when everything 
around us breathes of hope, and love, and joy ? Ah ! you 
know not the fear your deepening melancholy awakens, as the 
9 * 


hour approaclies that will make you mine forever — the fear 
that you love me no more/' 

" Not love you ! not love you, Claude !" repeated she with 
impassioned emphasis. Then suddenly throwing her arms 
round his neck, and suffering her head to droop upon his 
shoulder : " 0, it is this love — too strong — too deep — binding 
me too closely to life — that makes my misery and despair ! 
Oh ! Claude — Claude — I can not, can not give thee up I" 

" Mary, talk not so wildly. You alarm — you terrify me — 
you know not what you utter." 

" Yes, Claude,'' raising her head, and fixing on him a dark, 
thrilling glance. ''I know too well what I am uttering; I 
have wanted strength to say it ; but I could not bear ; you 
have made life so dear to me. Put your hand on my heart, 
Claude, and feel it flutter like the wings of a dying bird. 
Thus it flutters day and night ; I hear it ; I feel it ; I know 
that I am dying. It was thus she died — my own sweet 
sister ! Oh, Claude, I love you too well ; there is not room 
in this poor, weak heart, for such boundless love. It is 
breaking — dying I" 

Her arms relaxed ; her head fell heavily on his breast ; she 
had fainted. The almost frantic Claude bore her into the 
house. The father and mother hung over her with an anguish 
which only those parents know, who have seen sweet house- 
hold blossoms wither thus instantaneously in their arms. 
Another lovely daughter of the family, an elder sister, had 
been smitten in a similar manner. Thus insidious had been 
the approaches of disease — thus sudden had been the pros- 
tration. It was strange they had not perceived, and been 
alarmed by the symptoms — the hectic flush, the lustrous eye, 
the quick and panting breath. But they thought the purple 
bloom of love was in her cheek, and its agitation in her heart. 
They dreamed not the destroyer was near. 

The anguish of Claude baffled description. Mary, with the 
doom of death hanging over her young life, was loved as she 
never had been in the hour of health and joy. He would 
willingly have purchased her life with the sacrifice of his own. 
Her loveliness, purity, and truth, and above all, the intensity 
of her love, were worthy of such a price. That one so young, 
so fair, so angel-like and loving, should die in the brilliancy 
of her bloom, and lie down beneath the clods of the valley — 
it could not be. God, the Almighty, would strefch out His 


omnipotent arm, and save her : God, the All-merciful, would 
not inflict so fearful a chastisement. 

It was not till near the dawn of morning, that Claude sunk 
into a feverish slumber. Then the shrouded form of his 
adopted father seemed to stand bj his bed-side, and in a voice 
deep and solemn as the distant murmurs of the ocean, ex- 
claimed, " Be still, and know that I am Grod ', thus saith the 
Lord.'^ Claude trembled in every limb. Again the voice 
from the grave spoke : " Return, my son — return to the home 
of thy fathers. We, that love you here, are leaving you, one 
by one. You have a mission yet to fulfil, before we meet 
again.'' The vision faded, but it left a deep and solemn im- 
pression on the mind of Claude. 

When he stood by the couch of Mary, hope rekindled in 
his heart. Surely, death never came in a guise like that. 
The rose is glowing in her cheek with even brighter radiance. 
Alas ! the blood that dyes that glowing rose is taken, drop by 
drop, from the fountain of life. Mary had been struggling with 
her destiny, silently, darkly — struggling in the strength of 
her love — that human love which had interposed a shadow 
between her and her Heavenly Father's face. But now the strife 
was over. She met him with a smile of heavenly serenity. 

" I am calm, now, my beloved," she cried. " Qod has 
given me strength to resign thee. Oh, Claude, I have been 
an idolater, and my soul must be torn from the idol I adored. 
I have sinned, and deserve the chastisement. Had I been 
permitted to live for thee, the world would have been too dear 
to me. I would have asked no other heaven." 

Thus she continued to speak to him, who knelt in speech- 
less agony at her side, till her fluttering breath could no 
longer utter any but broken sentences — and then her eyes, bent 
upon his face, beamed with unutterable love. 

Mary died — the sweet, holy-minded creature, who seemed 
lent to earth a little while, to show what angels are — and the 
flowers of May, that were to have decorated her bridal hours, 
were strewed upon her shroud. Never had she looked so 
transcendently lovely, as when folded in her winding sheet, 
with white roses, less white than her '^fair and unpolluted 
flesh," scattered over her motionless breast, her long, soft 
lashes, resting on her cheek of snow, and her exc|uisite features 
breathing the stillness of everlasting repose. A smile of more 
than mortal sweetness rested on her pallid lips, and seemed to 
mock their icy coldness. But beautiful as she was, she was 

104 PERCY; OR, 

but dust, and she bad returned to dust again. They buried 
her by the side of her aged grandfather, and scattered the 
earth " over the face of eighteen summers/' 

Let us leave Claude awhile to the memory of the dead. 
Let us return to that cold, stern^ and proud man, whom we 
left upon his bed of down. 


Mr. Percy, after having banished his offending son, re- 
mained, to outward appearance, unchanged — but a worm was 
eating into his heart j outraged nature would make its accusing 
accents heard. Pride, to whose stern dictates he had sacrificed 
his affections, gave him no consolation. Even Ella, who had 
loved him so tenderly that her love cast out fear, turned coldly 
away from him the pale roses of her cheeks, and shrunk from 
the caresses she once sought and returned. A restless, insa- 
tiable desire for change took possession of him. He could not 
live surrounded by mute remembrances of his son. A picture, 
representing Claude in the brilliant beauty of boyhood, was 
taken down from the wall. 

" Oh ! cruel and hard-hearted,'' thought Ella, '' thus to 
vent his anger on the unconscious semblance of his son !" 

She knew not the silent workings of his soul. 

The portrait of his departed wife, the beautiful image of 
the loved and lost, on which he had been accustomed to gaze 
for years, and thus keep alive the remembrance of her youthful 
beauty — he turned its face to the. wall. The eyes, following 
him wherever he moved, seemed to ask, reproachfully, for her 
lost son. 

AVhy did he not seek to recall the young wanderer ? In- 
domitable pride still forbade. To recall an act would b^ an 
acknow^ledgment of error, and a stain on the infallibility of his 
character. As week after week passed by, without bringing 
tidings of the exile, vague fears and dark misgivings haunted 
and oppressed him. Perhaps, driven to despair by a father's 
cruelty, and unable to contend with the ills that youth and 
inexperience ever exaggerate, he had lifted a suicidal hand, or 
given his body to the secrecy and silence of th^ dark rolling 


stream. He would have given Ms pride, his name, yea, life 
itself, for one line, assuring him of the safety of his discarded 
boy. It was when his mind was wrought up almost to mad- 
ness by this suggestion, he saw in the public print an account 
of a young man whose body was washed on the shores of one 
of the rivers of the West. The stranger was young and hand- 
some, but there was nothing about his person by which his 
name could be identified, and '^ unknown" was written over 
his grave. Mr. Percy crushed the paper in his bosom, so that 
no eye but his own could see the startling paragraph ; but the 
image of that wave-washed body never forsook him. Floating 
on the current of memory, it was for ever drifting to the deso- 
late strand of his thoughts, where sorrow and remorse hung 
weeping over it. 

" Would you like to go to Paris ?" said he, one morning, 
to the sad and drooping Ella. 

" Oh ! yes, uncle V she cried, and, in her rapture at the 
idea of flying away from herself, she threw her arms around 
his neck and kissed his cheek. It was the first time she had 
voluntarily caressed him since Claude's banishment, and he 
was strangely moved. He pressed her to his heart, and she 
felt it throbbing as she never thought that hard heart could 
throb. As he bent his head to conceal the agitation of his 
features, she noticed that silvery shadows were fast spreading 
over his jetty locks. Absorbed in her own grief, a grief not 
unmixed with indignation against its author, she had not ob- 
served the marks of sufi'ering, more bitter and wearing because 
concealed on the lofty lineaments of Mr. Percy. But that 
palpitating heart, those whitening locks, and could it be ! 
yes — that tear falling on the cheek that rested on his bosom — 
all spoke of the chastisement avenging nature had inflicted. 
The sealed fountain of Ella's sorrows gushed forth at this 
expression of human sympathy, this drop of moisture, in the 
arid desert of his heart. 

" Oh, uncle I" she exclaimed, in a burst of passionate emo- 
tion, " you have not forgotten Claude ; you love him still ; I 
knew you must relent. Let me speak of him, uncle — I cannot 
bear this silence — it seems so like the silence of death." 

"Ella," said Mr. Percy, raising his head with a darkening 
countenance, " forbear ! have I not commanded you never to 
breathe his name ?" 

"But you love him," repeated Ella, excited beyond the 
power of self-control ; " you weep for him. Oh ! my uncle, 

106 PERCY; OR; 

talk not of Paris. Let us travel over our own country in 
search of him for whom we both are mourning. I cannot live 
in this uncertainty. I sometimes think I would be less miser- 
able if I knew he were dead than to live in this state of agoni- 
zing suspense. And yet/^ continued she, wringing her hands, 
" whither should we go ? He said he would write as soon as 
he had found a home. Perhaps he has found a home in the 
grave V 

She paused in her wild utterance, terrified at the effect of 
her words. Twice her uncle^ attempted to rise — then, sinking 
back with a heavy groan, a dark shade spread beneath his 
eyes, giving them such a sunken, hollow look, the whole 
contour of his face seemed altered. 

" What have I done ?" she cried, again throwing her arms 
around him. " Forgive me, speak to me, look at me, uncle !" 

Mr. Percy made a powerful effort, and raised his tall form 
to its usual commanding height. Ashamed of the weakness 
he had exhibited, the stern disciple of the stoic school mastered 
his emotion, and even assumed a colder, severer aspect : 

^' Eetire, Ella, and learn to respect the feelings you cannot 
understand. I am sent on a foreign mission. It depends 
upon yourself whether I make you my companion. I have 
pledged my services to my country, and require all my energies 
for the lofty duties of my station. Never again hazard a scene 
like this.'' 

They went to Paris, and, amidst new and exciting scenes, 
Ella recovered something of the brightness of her youth. The 
beautiful young American was flattered and caressed in the 
brilliant circles to which her uncle's rank and talents admitted 
him an honoured member. Unmoved by the adulation of the 
gay Parisians, she remained faithful to Claude in the widow- 
hood of her young heart ; and, though his name passed not 
her lips, it was only the more tenderly and devotedly cherished. 
This secret, fervent attachment, spiritualized by absence, and 
sanctified by sorrow, gave a depth and elevation to her cha- 
racter which softened, while it exalted, the girlish beauty of 
her countenance. 

The time of Mr. Percy's public services expired, and he 
prepared for his departure. He never complained of ill-health ; 
he was firm and energetic in the discharge of his duties ; but 
his cheek grew more hollow, and his tall, majestic figure, 
began to lose its upright position. The miners, that had so 


long been working in secret, had at length shaken the pillars 
of the temple, and the stately fabric was giving way. 

" I will go to Italy," said the weary statesman, " and, breath- 
ing awhile its balmy atmosphere, rest from the turmoil of life.'' 

The saddened mind of Ella kindled at the thought of visiting 
that classic land — the land of genius and song — of Romeo and 
Juliet's tragic loves. But where was the Romeo of her con- 
stant heart ? Cold, dreary silence, was the only answer to this 
oft-repeated interrogation, and it fell with leaden weight on 
her sinking hopes. It must be the silence of death or oblivion. 

But Mr. Percy found not the rest he sought. The bland, 
delicious gales, the soft, golden sunsets, the grand and solemn 
ruins, the magnificent monuments of departed genius, instilled 
no balm into his tortured and remorseful spirit. Where pride 
once reigned in regal majesty, the tottering feeling of in- 
security which haunts the soul, unsupported by Christian 
faith, when one by one the frail reeds of earthly hope are 
breaking from beneath it, alone remained. He languished to 
return once more- to the home he had deserted, and to feel 
himself surrounded once more by the mementoes of life's 
happier hours. — If he must die, let him be in the midst of 
those mute remembrancers, from which he had once im- 
patiently fled. * >K * * * * 

Returned once more to his native country and home, he was 
roused awhile from his languid and hopeless condition, by the 
distracted state of his affairs. His young secretary, who had 
anticipated his return from Paris, that all things might be in 
readiness for the invalid statesman, had absconded, bearing 
with him a large portion of the property intrusted to his care. 
After having taken the usual measures for the apprehension of 
the traitor, in whom he had implicitly trusted, Mr. Percy sunk 
again into his state of restless gloom. At length, after years 
of wavering conflicts with his own passions — conflicts strong 
and terrible as they were dark and silent — he prostrated him- 
self where the stricken soul alone can find rest, in penitence 
and humility and faith, at the foot of the Cross. ''' * 

It was a beautiful evening in September, one of those mild 
autumnal days of the more northern latitudes, when the sun 
seems to shine through golden gauze, and shed a rich, yellow 
radiance, in harmony with the mellowing dyes of the year. 

Reclining on a sofa, partially raised by pillows from a recum- 
bent attitude, lay the emaciated form of Mr. Percy. His once 
sable hair was now turned to snowy whiteness, and lines, 

108 PERCY; OR, 

deeper than those made by the engraving hand of Time, were 
traced upon his lofty brow. 

Ella sat on a low seat at his side — the book in which she 
had been reading, hanging listlessly in her hand. Far dif- 
ferent was she from the sunny-tressed, flower-crowned, bloom- 
ing being, introduced years before, in her birth-day gala robes. 
Those sunny tresses no longer hung in shining ringlets, free 
as the rippling wave, but were confined in classic bands 
behind. The brilliant beauty of girlhood was softened into the 
paler loveliness, the intellectual grace and subdued expression 
of womanhood. The brightness, the eagerness, the animation 
of hope, were exchanged for the shadow, the repose, the 
pensiveness of memory. 

" The dark of her eye 
Had taken a darker, a heavenlier dye." 

She was no longer the impassioned Juliet ; she was the gentle, 
self-sacrificing Cordelia, watching with filial tenderness over 
him, on whom the warring winds of passion had but too 
fiercely blown. But the voice, that was not in the tempest, 
the earthquake, or the fire, had breathed upon his spirit, and 
peace, if not joy, was there. Ella bent down and kissed her 
uncle's care-worn and pallid forehead. He was inexpressibly 
dear to her in his weakness, humiliation, and dependence. 
There seemed a balm in the soft touch of those caressing lips, 
for he closed his eyes in a gentle slumber, and Ella sat and 
watched him till the twilight shadows began to steal in, and 
mingle with the golden light of the setting sun. The sound 
of entering footsteps roused her from the deep revery into 
which she had fallen, and looking up, she beheld a stranger 
standing within a few paces of the threshold. She rose and 
gazed upon him with a troubled glance. A wild impulse led 
her to compare the lineaments of the stranger with those of 
the banished Claude. Of superior height and more manly 
proportions, there was nothing in his figure that could remind 
one of the boyish grace of her cousin. His hair was of a 
darker brown, and the pale oval of his cheek was of a very 
difi'erent contour from the glowing cheek of Claude. His eyes, 
too — they had the depth and saddened splendour of night ; 
Claude's, the dazzling brightness of the meridian beam. 

But those eyes rested not on her face. They were fixed, as 
by a fascination, on the recumbent form which had met his 
glance as he crossed the threshold. Ella trembled. An icy 


chill ran through her veins, and curdled her blood. The re- 
membered image of the bright and blooming Claude seemed 
to stand side by side with that pale, sad, and lofty-looking 
stranger, and mock her with the contrast. 

Mr. Percy, awakened from his light slumbers, opened his 
eyes, and met those of the young man, fixed so mournfully, 
steadfastly, and thrillingly upon him. Trembling, he leaned 
forward, and shading his brow with his hand, gazed upon his 
face. " My father !" burst from the quivering lips of the 
stranger. With a wild, unearthly cry, Mr. Percy sprang from 
the sofa, and fell into the arms of his banished son. 

'^ Let me die, let me die,'^ he murmured, in broken accents. 
^'- Oh, my God ! thou art great and good. Thou hast heard 
the prayers of a broken heart. Let me die V^ he continued, 
lifting his sunken eyes to Heaven, with a look of ecstatic de- 

Claude bowed his face on his father's bosom, and wept 
aloud. That sad, sad wreck ! was that indeed his father ? 
And Ella — was that pale, trembling, lovely being, now kneel- 
ing by them, with clasped hands and streaming eyes — was 
that the radiant Juliet he had left behind ? and was she 
faithful and unwedded still ? Supporting his father's feeble 
frame to the sofa, and gently withdrawing from his clinging 
arms, he turned to Ella, and the tide of boyish passion rushed 
in torrents through his heart. But such scenes cannot be 
described. They are foretastes of reunion in that world, 
where, the dark glass of time being broken, spirits meet each 
other, face to face, in the cloudless light of eternity. 

There are but few explanations to make. Claude had felt 
it a holy duty to remain with the mourning parents of his buried 
Mary, till time had softened the bitterness of their grief. 
Then, faithful to a vow he had made, the night, when in 
dreams he had beheld his adopted father, and heard from his 
lips the solemn words, " Return : you have a mission to 
fulfil," he resolved to seek in person the forgiveness of his 
ofl^ended parent, and devote his future life to his service. 
Believing, from the silence and apparent alienation of Ella, 
that she was by -this time the bride of another, he had come, 
a filial pilgrim, to the domestic altar, to ofi'er there the incense 
of chastened and purified affections. 

The young secretary, who had absconded, was overtaken on 
the confines of Mexico, and among the papers found in his 
possession, were the letters of Claude, which he had withheld 


and secreted, probably from the hope of one day filling the 
place of the banished heir, 

Joy is a great physician. Leaning on the arm and heart 
of his son, Mr. Percy slowly measured back his steps to 
that world, from which he believed himself divorced for ever. 
His voice was once more heard in the councils of the nation, 
and it was listened to with deeper reverence — for it uttered 
lessons of wisdom beyond the learning of this world — a wisdom 
born of suffering, baptized by tears, and sanctified by the Spirit 
of God. 

Claude, once more a Percy, resumed his place in the halls 
of his ancestors. He had told Ella all his story, and the name 
of Mary became sacred to her, as a holy, household divinity. 

" Mary,'' said Claude to his now betrothed Ella, " Mary 
was the bride of my soul : but you, Ella — the object of my 
youth's first passion — you only are the wife of my heart.'^ 



" His years but young, but his experience old, 
His head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe ; 
And in a word (for far behind his worth, 
Come all the praises that I now bestow). 
He is complete in feature, and in mind, 
With all good grace to grace a gentleman^ — Shakspeare. 

" Innocence unmoved 
At a false accusation, doth the more 
Confirm itself ; and guilt is best discovered 
By its own fears." — Nabb. 

" You seem a very smart little boy/' said Mr. Campbell, 
to a child of about seven years of age, wbo stood on the steps 
before him, with a bundle of hearth-brooms, much larger than 
himself, swung over his shoulder. 

" Yes, sir, I am smart ; I made these brooms myself,^' 
replied the boy, with such downright simplicity and truth of 
expression, that the gentleman found it difficult to retain his 
gravity. He bent down, took one of the brooms from the 
bundle, and examined it with benevolent attention. It was 
made of straw — simply bound together with twine — but so 
neatly and compactly, it would not have disgraced the craft 
of an older and more experienced workman. 

" I must have one of these,'' said Mr. Campbell, putting 
some bright pieces of silver in the hand of the little boy. 

" This is too much, sir,"' replied the child, lifting his clear, 
questioning eyes to the face of Mr. Campbell. "They are 
only a dime apiece." 

" Keep the whole," cried the gentleman. " I would not 
make one for twice what I have given you." 

" Oh ! it's so easy," cried the child, with animation. "You 
just put the straws m, and make the twine go in and out, and 
in and out, all the time." 



The child was very coarsely, but cleanly dressed. His little 
blue jacket was patched in the sleeves, and his short checked 
apron made "maist as good as new,'' by the addition of sundry 
brighter coloured morceaus to the worn and faded original. 
His dress bespoke extreme indigence, but it was respectable 
indigence, unaccompanied by misery or degradation. His hair 
was parted smoothly on his ingenuous brow, and his oval- 
formed face looked fresh and fair from a recent ablution. But 
what particularly attracted the attention of Mr. Campbell, was 
the beaming intelligence and remarkable candour of the boy's 
countenance. It was perfectly radiant with good humour, and 
indicated a disposition so affectionate and confiding, it was im- 
possible to look upon him, without wishing to pass the hand 
caressingly over his shining dark hair, or patting his cleaii, 
rosy, dimpled cheek. 

It was a serene, quiet, golden hour. The business of the 
day was over, and the spirit participated in the sweet repose 
of the mellow sunset. Had the child accosted Mr. Campbell 
at a time when he was occupied with the duties of his profea- 
sion, he might have given him a very different reception ; but 
just then, he had nothing to do. He was seated in the balcony, 
enjoying the coolness of the twilight breeze, and gazing with 
dream}' delight on the rosy clouds, fringed with ermine, that 
seemed dipping in an ocean of liquid gold, as they slowly de- 
scended towards the horizon. The little -apparition, that sud- 
denly presented itself in the midst of such gracious, glorious 
influences, was greeted with a benignant welcome. Mr. Camp- 
bell was fond of children, and his manners were kind and 
courteous. The boy lingered, as if unwilling to leave one 
whom he did not hesitate to consider his friend, when a vision 
appeared, which bound him to the spot, as by the spell of 
fascination. A little girl, some two or three years younger 
than himself, came bounding over the threshold, and running 
up to Mr. Campbell, jumped into his lap, and entwined her 
arms round his neck. 

" Oh, papa,'' cried she, nestling her cherub face in his bosom, 
'^I am so glad you are come !" 

It was the first time the boy had had an opportunity of 
satisfying his love of the beautiful, in animated being. Ever 
since he was conscious of perception, the beauties of nature 
had been silently but powerfully working on his imagination ; 
but here was, the beauty of life, of congenial childhood, so 
fair, so bright, so pure, that he sighed with a strange feeling 


of oppression and wonder. He remembered a little sister of 
his own, who had died about two years previous, but, like him- 
self, she had always been clothed in coarse and unbecoming 
garments, and being sickly and emaciated, she lacked those 
childish graces, which sometimes, as in his own case, triumph 
over the most adverse circumstances. This little girl, in her 
white muslin robe, fastened at the shoulder with knots of 
azure ribbon, coral necklace and bracelets, soft, lustrous, un- 
shorn, curling hair, pearly white complexion, tinged with the 
faintest rose colour, and sweet, hazel eyes, sparkling like dew- 
drops in the starbeams, seemed the realization of all his dreams 
of Grod's angels. It was as if the young rose he had seen 
blushing silently on the stalk, had suddenly become instinct 
with soul, and breathed forth its perfume, in a voice of ex- 
quisite music. 

At length the beautiful eyes of the child turned from her 
father's face, and rested on the boy, who was gazing on her 
with such an intensity of admiration. After looking at him 
steadily a few moments, through her long, falling ringlets, 
she slid from her father's lap, and went up close to the spot 
where he stood. 

" Little boy,'' she said, leaning forward and surveying him 
gravely and earnestly from head to foot, " i/ou are pretty, but 
your coat is ugly. I'll ask papa to buy you a new one." 

A bright blush burned on the cheek of the boy, as she thus 
addressed him ; but he did not hang his head, or look ashamed 
of the u(/I^ coat, her little ladyship so frankly condemned. 

^' I shall buy one myself," he answered, " when I've sold 
brooms enough." 

" That's right, my little fellow," cried Mr. Campbell, laugh- 
ing. ''I like your spirit. How would you like to come and 
live with me, and let me make a gentleman of you?" 

" I should like it very much, indeed, sir," answered the 
boy, unhesitatingly, his eye flashing up with surprising intel- 
ligence. " I'll go home and ask mother if I may come." 

" Well," continued Mr. Campbell, laughing still more 
heartily at this singular little specimen of humanity, "you 
must not forget it." 

"No, sir," said the child, raising his bundle of brooms 
again to his shoulder — and. warned by the gathering shadows, 
he turned to depart. "No, sir; I shan't forget it." 

With a low bow, and a flourish of his poor little battered 
straw hat (an accomplishment his mother had carefuUly taught 


him), he departed, casting many a lingering look towards the 
little girl, whose eye followed him down the steps and into 
the street with an expression of mingled admiration and pity. 
The careless words of the gentleman, forgotten almost as 
soon as uttered, thrilled through the spirit of the boy, pro- 
ducing, on its high-toned chords, a long and deep vibration. 
They were received in joy and hope and faith, and. acted upon 
in simplicity, godly confidence, and religious faith. 

About a fortnight after this incident, which had passed 
away from the mind of Mr. Campbell, just about the same 
hour, while he was seated as usual in the shaded balcony, the 
figure of the little broom-boy was seen trudging along the side- 
walk, entering the gate, and ascending the steps eagerly and 
pantingly, as if bent on some important business. He was 
dressed in a new suit of marine blue, his old straw hat was 
replaced by one fresh from the hands of the manufacturer, and 
a little bundle, tied up in a neat checked handkerchief, was 
suspended on his left arm. Walking straight up to Mr. Camp- 
bell, taking off his hat, and, making his little scrape of a bow, 
he looked at him with a smiling, triumphant countenance, 
saying : 

^Tve come, sir.'' 

^' So I see, my little fellow," cried Mr. Campbell, receiving 
him with a kind smile. " What articles have you for sale now 
in that nice bundle ?'' 

" These are my clothes, sir,'' replied the boy. '' My mother 
has been making new clothes for me, besides these I have on." 

" Why, how could she afi'ord to fit you out so smartly ? I 
thought you had to make brooms for a living." 

" So I do, sir. There's my broom money, you know, that 
I've been saving. Then she sold some hens and chickens — 
and little sister's crib, besides. She's dead, and don't sleep 
in it any more." 

The boy passed the back of his hand over his eyes, and 
coughed, to clear away a rising huskiness in his throat. 

" But what makes you bring your clothes with you ?" asked 
^ Mr. Campbell, excessively amused and interested by his little 
companion. " What are you going to do with them ?" 

'' Wear them while you are making a gentleman of me. 
You told me to come and live with you, sir, and Fve come.'' 

Mr. Campbell started. His light, unmeaning words, came 
back to his remembrance, and filled him with strange embar- 
rassment. The confiding innocence of the child affected him. 


The trusting faith of the mother rebuked the levity which had 
prompted the thoughtless remark. As the mother of Moses 
had committed her boy, in a frail osier cradle, to the waters 
of the Nile, trusting in the God of Israel, so this humble, un- 
suspecting woman, had intrusted her child to a stranger's 
keeping, relying, with Scripture simplicity, on his honour and 
truth. She had probably expended all her scanty means to 
purchase his new apparel. He could imagine with what 
trembling hands she had tied up his little bundle — how she 
smoothed his hair, and shaded it back from his fair, bold 
brow — how she kissed his blooming cheek, leaving a tear 
where every kiss was pressed — and with what a quivering lip 
she had God blessed him, and told him to be a good boy. He 
could not bear to say to the earnest, honest, truthful child, 
looking so eagerly and hopefully in his face, to go back to his 
mother and tell her it was all nonsense — he had only spoken 
in jest. He had no son of his own, and he had often yearned 
for one. His darling Gabriella was lonely, and wanted a play- 
mate and companion. There was nothing coarse or vulgar 
about the boy. He would not disgrace a gentleman's house- 
hold. But his wife ! Ah ! there was the obstacle. What 
would his elegant, fashionable, and aristocratic wife say to the 
adoption of this plebeian child ? And what could he do if 
she opposed it ? While she appeared soft, indolent, and pas- 
sive, she ruled him with Eastern despotism. He was proud 
of her beauty, proud of her high position in the world of 
fashion, and would have " coined his blood to drachmas'' 
sooner than have refused her mostextravagant demands. Not 
knowing what to say, he suddenly asked the boy his name — 

" EUery Gray, sir; but evervbody calls me the Litde Broom 

" Why, Ellery Gray is a very good name, indeed," said 
Mr. Campbell, glad that he did not belong to the tribe of Ben- 
jamin or Levi. The voice of Gabriella, sweet as a singing 
bird's, now warbled on the ear. With her graceful, bounding 
step — for she never walked — she came in sight, all in white, 
adorned with the blue of the sky, and the glowing coral of the 
ocean. She stopped just before she reached her father, and 
gazed with delighted countenance on Ellery, whose new suit 
of clothes wonderfully beautified his appearance. 

" Here, Gabriella," said her father, " let me introduce you 
to Master Ellery Gray, How would you like to have him stay 
and live with us, and be a brother of yours V 


'^ Like ! Oh, papa !" cried she, clapping her hands, with a 
sweet, wild burst of laughter, ^' you don't know how much I 
would like it V 

"Stay here, then, and entertain him, while I go and talk 
with your mother." 

What passed during this interview it is unnecessary to 
relate, as we are only interested in the result. When Mr. 
Campbell returned his brow was somewhat clouded ; but taking 
Ellery by one hand, while Grabriella held him protectingly by 
the other, he led him into the drawing-room, where a tall and 
beautiful lady, very richly and fashionably attired, half reclined 
in a lanquid, yet graceful manner, on a luxurious velvet sofa. 
Nothing could be more elegant or indolent than her whole 
appearance, and had little Ellery ever heard or read of Sultanas 
or Enchantresses, he would have imagined that he was now 
gazing on one. His unaccustomed eyes were actually dazzled 
by the jewels that gleamed amid the white cloud of lace around 
her neck, and sparkled on her snowy-white hand. He looked 
as if suddenly brought face to face with the noon-day sun. 
Never were admiration and awe more vividly expressed than 
in the honest, ingenuous eyes, fixed so unrecedingly upon her. 

"What do you think of this lady, Ellery?'' asked Mr. 
Campbell, reading his admiring countenance, and anticipating 
the reply he would make. 

"Think!" repeated Ellery, with a bright blush, "I don't 
know what to think. I didn't know there was any lady in the 
world so pretty." 

This well-timed and perfectly truthful expression, sealed the 
destiny of Ellery Gray. The vanity of the lady was not proof 
against this simple homage. The superb arch of her brows 
was instantaneously lowered, and a smile wreathed her lip. 

" Mamma," said Gabriella, looking patronizingly at the 
young protege; "This is Ellery — Ellery Gray. Isn't he 
pretty, mamma ? and doesn't he look nice ? May he not stay 
and live with us, and play with me when I'm tired of being 

Mrs. Campbell was vain and worldly, but not haughty or 
overbearing. Constitutionally indolent, she seldom troubled 
herself about the conduct of others, if it did not interfere 
with her own. When her husband described the dilemma in 
which he found himself, and endeavoured to argue away her 
aristocratic prejudices against the child, she was as much dis- 
pleased as she thought it becoming to be^ for she expected to 


see a coarse, ill-bred, overgrown young monster, whose vul- 
garity would shock her refinement. The contrast of the real' 
with the ideal, pleased her; the dazzling effects of her own 
charms gratified her vanity, and it was always less trouble to 
yield than to resist. To Mr. Campbell's unspeakable joy — 
for his heart was drawn more and more towards the Little 
Broom Boy — she gave a languid consent, and EUery Gray was 
admitted into the family of Mr. Campbell. 

Mrs. Gray, the mother of Ellery, was a woman of strong, 
good sense, genuine piety, and child-like dependence on the 
especial Providence of God. She believed it was the will of 
the Almighty, that Ellery should be a gentleman, and obedient 
to that will, she was ready to sacrifice every selfish considera- 
tion to his future interest. She knew Mr. Campbell well by 
reputation — so it was not with blind trust that she had yielded 
up her son. With firm resolution, she resisted the pleadings 
of affection, which urged her to seek her little boy in his new 
and comparatively magnificent home. He was permitted to 
visit her, but, with rare judgment, she forebore to obtrude her- 
self into the presence of the elegant Mrs. Campbell, whose 
pride was thus spared a shock, which would have been fatal to 
the growing interests of Ellery. 

Years passed on. The boy grew into adolescence. A hardy 
plant, transplanted from the wilderness of life, to one of its 
green, sunny bowers, he had a vitality, a moral vigour, that 
resisted the enervating influences around him. The early prin- 
ciples of piety instilled into his heart by his strong-minded 
mother, formed a basis of rock to his character, which the 
winds of temptation in vain assailed. And temptation did 
beset him, on every side, not less dangerous because lurking 
in flowery ambush. His gratitude to his benefactor was only 
equalled by his affection, yet with all his gratitude and affec- 
tion, he could not feel that respect and veneration, that confi- 
dence in the firmness of his principles, which he longed to 
cherish. He saw that he was kind, gentle, and affectionate; 
but there was a weakness and indecision about him, that kept 
one trembling for his integrity and honour. He condemned 
the extravagance of his wife, yet yielded to it without a strug- 
gle. ■ He condemned the system of vanity and indulgence in 
which ^he educated the young Gabriella, yet he had not the 
moral courage to place her under a purer, healthier discipline. 
Young as Ellery was, he felt a constant struggle with judg- 
ment and imagination, principle and feeling. With his exqui- 


site perception of tlie beautiful, he could not but admire the taste 
and splendour that floated like a golden drapery over the house- 
hold arrangements, and gave such an air of enchantment to the 
elegant mistress of the establishment. With his remarkable 
simplicity and love of truth and virtue, he could not but be 
pained at witnessing a life of such meretricious display and 
selfish luxury. Gabriella — sweet, lovely, fascinating child as 
she was — was made to form a part of the glittering show-pic- 
ture. Ellery loved to gaze upon it, for it was beautiful and 
fair to look upon, but vanity of vanities was written upon the 
margin, and there were moments when all its brightness van- 
ished. We are speaking of the inner thoughts — those thoughts 
which lie fathoms deep in the heart — seldom drawn up to the 
surface, but keeping the fountain fresh and pure. In the 
family, in society, Ellery appeared a bright, ingenuous, intel- 
ligent boy — modest, without being humble, self-reliant, with- 
out being presumptuous, remembering the indigence from 
which he had been raised, only to bless the hand which had 
elevated him. 

Mr. Campbell gave him every advantage of education short 
of a college life. He was himself Cashier of a Bank in the 
city in which he dwelt — an ofl&ce which he had held for many 
years — and when Ellery was old enough, he gave him the 
situation of clerk in the institution. This was not the position 
to which his boyish ambition had aspired. He had associated 
from his earliest remembrance with his idea of a gentleman, 
something great and glorious — influence, command, eloquence, 
and the full expansion of intellect. He did not like a business 
life. His taste shrank from all dry details — all mere matter-of- 
fact occupations. He felt the flutter of his growing wings, and 
longed to unfurl them in the sunlight that rested like a glory- 
crown on the hill top which he panted to ascend. But Mr. 
Campbell told him that he needed his services ; that he wished 
to keep him near his person ] that he felt as if he had a sheet 
anchor of integrity and truth in him, on which he could lean, 
and he submitted his neck to the yoke with graceful submission. 
He had a conviction that his benefactor did need him, and he 
kept down his proud aspirations, and hushed all selfish re- 
pinings, glad to make an acceptable offering on the altar of 

Gabriella, who had been for several years at a fashionable- 
boarding school, that she might receive all the graces of educa- 
tion, now returned in the full, sweet, fresh bloom of girlhood. 


When a child, she had treated Ellery with the endearing 
familiarity of a sister, and one word from his truthful lips, 
one glance from his rebuking eye, would arrest her on the 
verge of temptation and turn her into the path of right, no 
matter how passion might misguide or folly betray. But four 
years of absence had wrought a wonderful change. The child 
was grown into womanhood — the. boy into manhood. The 
young clerk was proud, and stood aloof from the lovely, but 
now capricious and flattered beauty. He sighed over the 
sweet remembrances of boyhood, but he could now no more 
approach with brotherly endearments the beautiful Grabriella, 
than if she were surrounded by silver bars, to guard her from 
intrusion. Though still of the same household, he seemed at 
an immeasurable distance from her, and the atmosphere around 
her seemed to him to partake of the dazzling splendour and 
chillness of a polar night. It is true, he would sometimes catch 
a glance from her dark, hazel eyes, full of gentle, childish 
memories, which would instantaneously melt the icy incrusta- 
tions of formality, and his heart would leap in his bosom like a 
vernal fountain. But if, perchance, he again sought that soft, 
subduing eye-beam, the light of memory appeared quenched, 
and the orbs it so beautifully illumined, shone with a colder 
and more distant radiance. 

One evening, he remained in the drawing-room, after the 
guests had departed, and the family retired. He was seated 
in a recess which looked into the garden, and whose entrance 
was shaded by flowering shrubs. He had found a book 
which he had last seen in the hand of Gabriella, and whose 
margin bore the traces of her pencil. His attention became 
so riveted to its contents, that he was not aware he was left 
sole occupant of the still brilliantly illuminated apartment. A 
very light footstep entered, but he did not hear it. The slight 
shiver of the rose leaves, whose shadow played upon his brow, 
did not disturb his deep abstraction ; but when a sweet voice 
uttered the name of ^' Ellery,'' in tones resembling the well 
remembered music of childhood, he started so suddenly that 
the book fell from his hand. He looked up. G-abriella stood 
just within the recess, putting back with one hand the flowers, 
which sent out a cloud of fragrance at her gentle touch. She 
was dressed in white muslin, with blue sash and ribbons, and 
he thought of the moment when she first beamed upon his 
childish vision, in the same celestial-looking costume. He 
thought of himself as the little broom hoy^ whose person she 


had approved, while she had condemned his ugly coat. Then 
he recollected how they had played together as children, and 
how gently she had borne his mentorship, and how often she 
had been influenced by his counsels. The immeasurable space 
which had appeared lately to separate them, seemed suddenly 
annihilated, and they stood together on the green margin of 
youth, watching the sunbeams, as they sparkled on the stream 
of life. 

'•'■ Gabriella !'^ he exclaimed, rising, with a blush of delighted 
surprise, '' dear Gabriella !'^ 

It was the first time he had seen her alone since her return ; 
the first time he had dared to use the endearing epithet once 
so familiar to his lips. She did not appear displeased with the 
freedom, nor did she immediately withdraw the hand he had 
involuntarily taken. Her eyes filled with tears, but a lovely, 
happy smile played upon her lips. 

'' I came for my book," said she, blushing at the disin- 
genuousness of her words ; '' but you can keep it if you like. 
And yet I will not say so. The book is rather an excuse than 
a cause. I wished to speak with you, Ellery, and have vainly 
sought the opportunity.'^ 

" With me !'' he exclaimed. The glow of pleasure that 
irradiated his countenance, was like the bursting of the sun- 
light on the water. 

" Yes," said Gabriella, drawing back a few paces, with an 
air of modest reserve ; " but it is not of myself or you, that I 
came to speak. It is of my father. Ellery, he is w changed. 
You, that have been with him all the time, may not see the 
transformation- — but I do. He must have sorae cause of care 
and sorrow unknown to the world. In you, he has unbounded 
confidence. You are his chosen companion — his familiar friend. 
He has no secret from you — I know he has not. Tell me what 
it is that is making furrows on a brow, as yet unwrinkied by 

" Believe me, Gabriella — I am not in your father's con- 
fidence," he answered gravely, almost sadly. 

" You are not ? If you assert it, it must be so, for you were 
always truth itself. But you must have marked the change. 
You do not accuse me of vain apprehensions." 

*'He may have cause of disquietude, but I have never ques- 
tioned him. My respect has ever guarded my curiosity." 

"Curiosity!" repeated she, with impatience. "You can- 
not, must not, give so cold a signification to a daughter's 


trembling fears. Oh ! if you knew half the love I bear him 
— half the affection — the tenderness that fills my heart — you 
would hot wonder that I suffer at the possibility of misery 
impending over him/^ 

'^ Would you indeed save him from misery, at any sacrifice V 
cried Ellery, touched and charmed by- this unexpected burst 
of filial enthusiasm. 

" Would I V^ repeated she, earnestly; " Oh ! that I could be 
put to the test !" 

" As I said before/' he resumed, " I am not in your father's 
confidence ; but I have seen with pain, an expression of grow- 
ing care upon his countenance, and a restlessness of manner, 
indicative of disquietude within. I have sometimes imagined 
that pecuniary embarrassment might be the cause. I have 
thought," contintied he, looking round him, and colouring at 
his own boldness, " that the fountain from which so much 
luxury was flowing, was in danger of being drained." 

'^ Ah ! is it indeed so ?" cried she, giving a rapid glance at 
the splendid furniture which her mother had recently pur- 
chased, to gratify a caprice of fashion — at the costly pearls 
which adorned her own neck and arms — and recalling the 
thousand expenditures of the household. '^ Is it indeed so ? 

Yes, we are too lavish and extravagant. My mother " she 

checked herself suddenly — then added, " My father is too 
liberal, too indulgent, for his own good. He never repressed a 
generous impulse, never banished a supplicant from his door." 

Ellery could not but remember that he was indebted to one 
of these generous impulses for his present situation in the 
world, and, though he knew he was now repaying his bene- 
factor with the devotion of his whole life, a burning suffusion 
dyed his face, and the remembrance of the obligation weighed 
heavy on his heart. The words of Gabriella, though not so 
intended, sounded as a reproach. 

" Your father is generous," he cried, " too generous and 
uncalculating for his own interest. I am glad that you are 
awakened to such a watchfulness over his happiness. Be hence- 
forth the guardian angel of his heart and home. All will then 
be well. Forgive me, G-abriella, that I thought you were 
becoming vain and heartless, spoiled by indulgence, and in- 
toxicated by adulation. I see you have a heart — a true and 
noble one — too true, too noble, to be sacrificed at the golden 
shrine of wealth and fashion. How is it, with such feelings, 
such genuine sensibility and excellence of character, you can 


ever do yourself so much injustice as to appear, even for a 
moment, to be the artificial and worldly being you really, 
though secretly, scorn ?"- 

'' There spoke EUery Gray/' said she, with a laugh, that 
grated a little on his excited nerves — " the boy-mentor of my 
childhood. I cannot answer you, for I do not know myself. 
I believe,'^ she exclaimed, her eye flashing with an expression 
difficult to define, " that I am a two-fold being, the lover of 
nature and the votary of art. When with you or my father, 
I am a little child once more, such as you first saw me, when 
I "knew no higher joy than to be cradled, in his arms. When 
in the world, as the gay circle which surrounds me is called, 
vanity and pride luxuriate, and throw into shade the blossom- 
ings of -my better nature. I wish I had never been taught to 

G-abriella sighed and looked down. Oh ! that sigh spoke 
volumes. It told of a world-weary spirit ; weary, though its 
young plumes had so lately been unfurled. It told of heart- 
yearnings that must seek repression — of " immortal longings," 
jLeld down by a cold, mortal pressure. Without speaking 
again she turned and left the room ; but she saw the look with 
which Ellery followed her, and it made her sigh again. 

The next morning she resolved to speak to her father before 
he left home for the business of the day, and learn from him, 
if the}^, the luxuries she was enjoying, were purchased at so 
dear a price as his tranquillity. She would far rather clothe 
herself in sackcloth and ashes, and live on bread and water, 
than fare sumptuously, and be arrayed in purple and fine 
linen, at the expense of his honour and peace. So she told 
him, with tearful eyes and embracing arms. 

"Foolish, foolish girl !" he cried, looking more vexed and 
angry than she had ever seen him before. " Who put such 
wild thoughts into your head ? I wa& never more cheerful, 
more happy. Never allude to the possibility of such a state 
of things to me or to any one. Never, I say, on penalty of 
my displeasure. No, no, Grabriella, it is not in the morning 
of your womanhood that I would abridge you of one pleasure, 
or wish you to deny yourself one luxury that affection can 
suggest or wealth can purchase." 

To convince her of the truth of his words, he brought her 
that evening a new set of jewels, and, if one did not call him 
cheerful, it was because he was gay. 

" You are mistaken, Ellery," said G-abriella, as she glittered 


Ibefore him, a moment, in her new ornaments. " My father's 
coflPers are far from being drained. Never again allude to such 
a thing, I pray you, if you would not give him pain and dis- 
pleasure. The cloud, if my misgiving heart has not altogether 
created it, must have another origin. Oh ! be watchful, 
Ellery ; guard every avenue to evil. Be to my father what I 
would have been had heaven made me a boy.'' 

It was very sweet to have Gabriella thus address him by the 
familiar name of Ellery, to confide to him her filial apprehen- 
sions, to smile upon him so kindly, so gratefully, when he 
promised all and more than she asked ; and he wondered that 
he could ever have thought her cold and capricious; but when 
he again saw her the centre of a crowd of flatterers, inhaling 
the incense of adulation, or bestowing on others that enchant- 
ing smile, which almost maddened him to behold, he wondered 
equally at the illusion he had not the power to dispel, and 
could only explain the seeming inconsistencies of her character 
by believing her own words, that she was a two-fold being, 
whose nature his single-heartedness and simplicity could never 
fathom. He never dreamed that she smiled on others, lest 
the world should believe she only cared to smile on him — that 
she appeared capricious, to conceal her constancy — cold, to 
hide the central warmth of her heart. 

The promise he had given to watch over her father he faith- 
fully kept, but in Mr. Campbell he found another enigma 
more painful and equally perplexing. The temper, once so 
mild and uniform, was becoming irritable and uncertain. The 
affectionate confidence he had always exhibited to Ellery, 
gradually changed to distance and reserve ; so imperceptible 
in its advances that he felt the chillness before he perceived 
the twilight shadow stealing over his heart. 

'' He fears the poor boy whom he has elevated to the posi- 
tion of a gentleman," said Ellery to himself, "may dare to 
raise his eyes to the daughter of his benefactor. His coldness 
is intended as a rebuke to my presumption.'^ 

These thoughts goaded the proud, ingenuous heart of the 
young man, and the consciousness of possessing feelings it was 
his duty to crush, darkened the sunshine of his conscience. 
He avoided, more and more, the lovely, capricious being, 
whose fascinations he felt every day more irresistible, but one 
glance of her eye, one word of her lip, would destroy the stern 
resolutions which he had passed wakeful hours in forming. 

He was roused from this state of morbid sensibility, by a 


thunder-stroke, as sudden and terrible as the lightning's bolt 
darting from the cloudless bosom of noonday. 

When the directors of the bank made their annual exami- 
nation, there was a deficiency of nearly ten thousand dollars, 
entered on the books, of which the young clerk could render 
no account. The character of Mr. Campbell for integrity and 
honour, had been so long established, it seemed impossible 
that suspicion should rest upon him. Ellery G-ray was young 
and had his reputation yet to make. The story of his child- 
hood, the manner of his introduction to Mr. Campbell, the 
kindness, the munificence of that gentleman towards him, 
were well known to the public. At the time of his adoption 
the name of the little hroom hoy w^as on everybody's lips, 
and many laughed at Mr. Campbell for his quixotic benevo- 
lence. That a youth raised from indigence and obscurity, and 
exposed to great temptations, in a situation so responsible as 
the one in which he was placed, should fall, was the natural 
and fatal consequence of a false position. 

"'Tis dangerous to take one from the dregs of life,'' said 
one. '' Education may polish the exterior, but the internal 
corruption will still remain.'' 

"■ Gentle born as well as gentle bred, for me," said another. 
" No chemic art can remove a hereditary taint from the blood. 
I never liked the boy's lofty air and independent manners. 
Well; he has a trade ready for the penitentiary. I suppose 
he has not forgotten how to make brooms." 

There were some who bore testimony to the excellence and 
piety of his mother's character, to the purity and nobleness of 
his own — but to the astonishment of many, Mr. Campbell did 
not attempt to vindicate his adopted son from the foul crime 
imputed to him. 

"I did love and trust him, as myown son," he exclaimed, 
in grief, rather than surprise and anger, '' but I acknowledge 
that I have been cruelly, ungratefully deceived. I have lately 
had some sad misgivings, but I never dreamed of the extent 
of the fraud. I should not have exposed him to temptations. 
But alas, whom can we trust ? I once believed him the very 
embodiment of truth and honour." 

Ellery heard this sentence as it fell from the lips of his 
benefactor, and there were those present who saw the look, 
which answered it, who said they never should forget it till 
their dying day. 

That night, when Mr. Campbell entered the chamber of 


Ellery, tie found him with his face bowed upon his hands, 
and his hands resting on the table, immovable as stone. He 
went up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder — 

" Ellery," said he, in a sorrowful voice, " this is a grievous 
afiair; I am sorry for you, sorry for myself, sorry for your 
poor mother/' 

Ellery gave a convulsive start, and shook off, with a writh- 
ing gesture, the hand that rested on his shoulder. Then 
raising his head, he fixed his inflamed eyes on the face of Mr. 
Campbell. No word issued from his wan and quivering lips, 
but there was many a one written in that burning, steadfast 
gaze. The cheek of Mr. Campbell turned of ashy paleness, 
beneath its scorching beam. 

" Are you indeed sorry, sir V at length uttered the youth, 
his countenance kindling with an expression of lofty disdain ; 
'' You,, who, instead of being my champion, confirm the igno- 
minious charge ! You, who, instead of vindicating the inno- 
cence so foully wronged, join the ranks of my accusers, and 
strike with your own hand the cruellest, deadliest blow to my 
reputation I" 

" What mean you ?" exclaimed Mr. Campbell, recoiling and 
knitting his brows fiercely. '' What would you dare to in- 
sinuate V - 

" I insinuate nothing," replied Ellery. " I assert my inno- 
cence — I assert my conviction that it is known to yourself and 
ought to be proclaimed to the whole world — I assert that I am 
the victim of an unjust accusation — that I am made the shield 
of an unsuspected criminal." 

" I understand you, young man," cried Mr. Campbell, the 
purple hue of repressed passion settling round his mouth. "I 
understand your covert meaning. Is this the return for all 
my favours, this the gratitude I receive for long years of 
paternal tenderness and care ? Yes ! I see it all. You would 
roll the burthen of your guilt on me, your benefactor and 
friend. You would destroy the peace of my family ; the 
happiness of my wife. You wQuld break, with ruthless hand, 
the heart of my daughter." 

The dark fire that gleamed in the young man's eye was 
suddenly quenched. Again he bowed his head upon his hands, 
and the table shook with the paroxysm of his agony. Low, 
deep sobs, such as heave the breast of childhood, but seldbm 
rend the bosom of man, burst forth, mingled with ejaculations 
to heaven. ' . 



"Grod forgive me if I wrong anotlier," he exclaimed. ^^I 
care not for myself; I would willingly sacrifice myself for her 
peace ; but my mother ! It will crush ; it will kill her. Well ! 
it is better that she die ; better to wear the crown of glory, 
than bear the cross of shame. From the height of Paradise 
she can look down on the dungeon of her son."' 

Mr. Campbell appeared greatly affected by this outbreak of 
filial emotion. He covered his face and seemed to weep. All 
traces of anger had fled. 

"I would willingly give this right hand/' said he, ^^if this 
had not happened. If I had the means to pay this sum, I 
would do it in one moment, to save you from disgrace. There 
is one thing, however, I can do — I can assist your flight. You 
can go beyond the limits of pursuit, and establish, in a new 
country, the reputation you have forfeited here.'' 

" Never," exclaimed the young man, and a haughty flush 
swept over his cheek and brow, " never will I thus set the 
seal to my infamy. I will not fly — for I am innocent — and 
the world will one day know it. I believe there are justice 
and retribution even on earth. God is righteous, and will not 
forsake those who put their trust in him. I will trust him, I 
yielded for one moment to the weakness of nature, but I am 
strong now. My mother will not believe that I am guilty. I 
said this blow would kill her — but it will not. Christianity 
will support her." He paused a moment, then added, as if 
speaking to himself rather than to Mr. Campbell : 

'^ If Gabriella should doubt my integrity ! If her confidence 
should be shaken ! Can she resist the terrible force of circum- 
stances, and preserve her esteem ?" 

^^ And what is my daughter to you, young man ?" inter- 
rupted the father, sternly, '^ that you dare to talk of her 
confidence and esteem at a moment when her very name should 
be a stranger to your lips ?" 

" She is what you have made her to me — the companion of 
my childhood ; the sister of my soul ; the inspiration of my 
thoughts ; the idol of my affections. I speak of her now as 
the dying man speaks of the treasure he is about to leave for 
ever, in the freedom and honesty of the death-hour. I loved 
her as a child — I loved her as a boy — I adore her as a man. In 
the midst of vanity and frivolity, I have seen the glory-gleams 
of an angelic nature struggling through the mists with which 
folly and pride have sought to envelop her. I never pre- 
sumed on her affection ; never forgot that she was to be offered 


at the shrine of Mammon. I should have carried the secret 
to my grave had not this unmerited obloquy forced the reve- 
lation from me — for know, sir, it is for Jier sake that I yield 
myself a passive victim to the fate now darkly closing around 

Mr. Campbell listened in silence to this bold confession, and 
its singular close. His hand was pressed upon his eyes, his 
lips firmly closed, and the veins on his temples dark and full. 

" Have you ever told Gabriella that you loved her ?'' said 
he, rising and turning towards the door. 

"Never, sir." 

" It is well.'' - • ■ 

The door slowly opened, closed again, the echo of retreating 
footsteps died away, and EUery Grray was left alone — with his 

Mr. Campbell passed on to his chamber by a back passage, 
with hurried steps, driven along by wild, stormy, maddening 
thoughts. He held the lamp in his left hand, while his right 
clenched his forehead, in the vain attempt to still its strong, 
irregular beatings. He entered his room and threw himself 
on a sofa, groaning from the very depths of his soul. 

" My Grod I" he cried, " I cannot bear this. I cannot. I 
shall turn a maniac, and then — and then — good Heavens ! 
what then ?" 

"Who's there?'' he exclaimed, starting up as the door sud- 
denly burst open, and Grabriella, with her hair loose and dis- 
hevelled, her cheek white as alabaster, and a dark shadow 
under her wildly-flashing eyes, rushed in, and, casting herself 
at her father's feet, wrapped her arms round his knees. 

" What is this they tell me, father ?" she cried, resisting 
his efforts to release himself — " that Ellery Grray is a villain — 
that he has committed a dreadful crime — that he must suffer 
the felon's doom ? Oh, father ! you know that this is false — 
you know this cannot be. Oh ! father, save him — save him 
from ignominy and punishment. Bear witness to his good 
and noble character. Bear witness to his truth and integrity. 
You can — you ought to do it. Father, you turn away your 
face — you frown — you struggle to shake me from you. You 
do not believe him guilty. Look at me and tell me if you 
doubt, for one moment, the worth and honour of Ellery Grray V 

Thus wildly pleading, and closely clinging, Grabriella lay at 
her father's feet, unconscious of the energy of her language, 
the abandonment of her attitude. All artificial coldness and 


conventional restraint was swept away-by the whirlwind of 
excited feeling. She would as soon have doubted the immu- 
tability of the word of Grod as the excellence of Ellery Grray. 
This faith, born in childhood, had strengthened with every 
passing year. In all her caprices and follies it had been a 
talisman to preserve her from absolute evil. His dark, clear, 
serious eye, was to her spirit what the glowing pillar was to 
the children of Israel — an emblem of the presence of Grod — 
and it guided her, even when she seemed most devious in her 
course, through the moral wilderness in which she was wander- 
ing. A silent, but powerful influence, was always resting 
upon her, unacknowledged, but still deeply felt. No one 
dreamed that the young clerk was to her anything but an ob- 
ject of occasional condescension and kindness ; but conviction 
now flashed upon the father's mind, and he felt the error he 
had committed in placing this highly endowed and singularly 
attractive young man in such close juxtaposition with his 

" Father, you do not speak,'' continued she, with more im- 
passioned emphasis. "■ Tell me if you believe him guilty ?" 

'' Grabriella,'' cried her father, goaded to frenzy by her re- 
iterated appeals, and seizing both her hands in his with a force 
that made them ache, " G-abriella, if he be proved innocent, 
the world may believe your father guilty. The shame, the 
ignominy, that now rest on him, will then, doubtless, fall on me; 
but I swear before the Grod that made me," added he, raising 
his eyes with a look that made her shudder, " I will not one 
moment survive the loss of my honour ! Good Heavens ! 
what have I done! Grabriella, Gabriella, look up ! Almighty 
Father ! I do believe I have killed her." 

She had fallen to the floor with leaden weight, and lay still 
and white as marble. Her eyes were closed, and her face, 
partly covered by masses of dark-brown hair, was like the face 
of the dead. Raising her in his arms, he bore her to a win- 
dow, and, throwing up the sash, sufiered the night air to blow 
in upon her brow. The moon was just rising above the hill- 
tops, grand, serene, holy, magnificent. It rose, and the dark 
outline above which it beamed turned to glistening silver. It 
rose, and the waters .of the majestic Ohio, gliding and gleaming 
through the distant foliage, shone and sparkled and spread 
out into a glassy mirror, in which another moon looked up and 
smiled upon the moon above ; and, just over his head, a faint 
beam, struggling through the curtained window of Ellery' s 


room, mingled with the splendour of the firmament. The 
white glory of the moonlight, and the dim, reddish ray, issuing 
from that window, fell together on the pallid face of Gabriella 
as she reclined in her father's arms. He trembled as he looked 
upward, almost expecting to see the Deity rending those beau- 
teous heavens and coming down ; those dark, silver-edged hills, 
flowing down at his presence. He held her closely to his 
breast, and prayed that she might never again unclose those 
eyes — never look upon his face again. But she did unclose 
them — did look up to him — and, as the mists cleared away 
from her vision, she read that in his countenance, which made 
cold shudders run through her frame. A horrible fear took 
possession of her — a fear that could not be expressed — but 
from whose haunting presence she could never be free. Her 
mind seemed endowed with a sudden and terrible clairvoyance. 
A thousand circumstances, which made but little impression 
at the time, came back to her memory with the distinctness 
and vividness of letters of fire? The experience of years was 
condensed in that moment of time, and the wither of age 
struck her young and blooming heart. 

As the father and daughter thus looked into each other's 
faces, in the clear, pale moonlight, with the stilly night sigh- 
ing around them, there was a mutual revelation of thought 
which both would have given worlds never to have made. But 
eyes are the windows of the soul, and are sometimes transpa- 
rent as crystal. Gabriella rose from her father's arms, and, 
as she did so, the clasp of her bracelet caught in the sleeve of 
his coat, arresting her motions. He stooped to release it, but, 
tearing the jewel from her wrist, she cast it at his feet. Then, 
with a sudden reaction of feeling, she gathered up the gem, 
and gazed earnestly upon it. 

" Father," she suddenly exclaimed, " what's the value of 
this ? and this, too ?" extending the other beautiful arm, on 
which a golden circlet was shining. " Oh I I have jewels 
without number — cannot they ransom him f^ 

" Alas ! they would be but drops spilled in the ocean.'' 

" But my mother ! I will go to my mother. She has jewels 
enough to ransom a king. She will not, cannot withhold 

"All your mother's gems added to your own would avail 
nothing. Trouble her not. It would be worse than useless. 
You cannot save Ellery, and let me tell you, Grabriella, this 
in the young man is unmaidenly and unbe- 


coming. It will expose you to censure, and me to reproach. 
Retire, and learn more modesty and self-control." 

He spoke bitterly, severely. It was with a great effort he 
did so, but, after the first cold, measured words, the otl^ers 
came with more ease and arbitrariness of tone. 

" Retire,'^ repeated he ; "I would be alone." 

She obeyed him in silence, and he was left alone. 

Ellery had not moved since Mr. Campbell quitted him. He 
sat in the chair by the table, his head resting on his hands, in 
the dim and quivering lamp-light. He knew not how long he 
had thus remained. So deep was his abstraction, he was not 
conscious of his own existence. He knew not whether he was 
waking or dreaming, present or absent. When the door opened 
he did not move, though his spirit sprang forward to meet the 
unseen visitant. He felt its approach, though the footsteps 
were noiseless, and, through his covered eyes, he seemed to 
recognise the features of a dream-angel, such as often beamed 
upon his nightly visions. A \^rm life-breath floated over his 
cheek ; a tear, a warm, gliding, crystal drop, stole slowly over 
hs surface, but it fell not from his own eyes. 

"Ellery," whispered a sad, tremulous voice, "I believe in 
your innocence. My faith in you shall never waver. Fare- 
well. May God sustain us both." 

The dream-angel vanished, but the tear remained on his 
cheek — the balm in his heart. He felt gentle and submissive 
as a weaned child — they might carry him to prison — they 
might immure him in the dungeons of the penitentiary — but 
they could not shut out the light of his innocence, the glory 
of her faith and trust. He might die, and fill a felon's dis- 
honourable grave, but that innocence would cast a halo round 
its darkness, that faith and trust shed their glory on his 

We will not linger on these painful scenes in the life of 
Ellery Gray. He was tried, condemned on circumstantial 
evidence, and sentenced to ten years' solitary imprisonment 
within the walls of the Penitentiary. His place became vacant 
in the office, and in the household — his name a forbidden sound. 
Another clerk filled the station he was supposed to have dis- 
honoured. Mr. Campbell, after receiving the sympathy and 
condolence of his friends, for the ingratitude and turpitude of 
his unworthy protege, pursued his accustomed course. If it 
was remarked that his face was pale, and his brow more fur- 
rowed, it was imputed to the anguish of betrayed confidence 


and outraged affection. Mrs. Campbell continued her course 
of vanity and extravagance, becoming, if possible, more vain 
and extravagant than before. The disgrace and imprisonment 
of Ellery Grraj, disturbed the stream of her life about as long 
as the pebble ruffles the current into which it falls. The loss 
of a bracelet or a ring would have affected her far more. 

And Gabriella — did she resume her place in the circles of 
fashion, forgetful of the youth who, 'she fully believed, was 
suffering the penalty of another's crime? Did she smile, as 
she had too often done, on the flattering worldlings who sur- 
rounded her ? No ! She was never seen to smile, and from 
the night when she had torn the bracelet from her arm, and 
dashed it at her father's feet, she had never worn jewelry or 
ornament. She dressed with the simplicity of a nun, and no 
persuasion or reproaches could induce her to change her attire. 
Mrs. Campbell was too vain and too beautiful herself, not to 
become reconciled to a course which threw into shade the 
dazzling youthful charms, which threatened to eclipse her 
matured loveliness. Society wondered at the transformation, 
and avenged its slighted attractions by secret slander, or open 

y There was but one place in the world that now possessed a 
charm for the saddened spirit of Grabriella — and that was the 
humble home of Ellery G-ray. She had made a vow to her- 
self to minister, with a daughter's tenderness, to his heart- 
stricken mother, and she, who went to impart consolation, re- 
ceived it in her own bosom. Mrs. Gray was a Christian. 
Gabriella, though the daughter of a Christian land, was as 
ignorant of the true principles of Christianity, as though born 
on the banks of 'the Ganges. Mrs. Gray, though ignorant in 
modern literature, was " mighty in the Scriptures," and it was 
astonishing with what eloquence and power this humble, un- 
lettered woman, explained the mystic scroll of revelation, 
which seemed now for the first time unrolled to the eyes of 
the young Gabriella. It was not alone the thought of Ellery 
languishing, an innocent victim, in the dungeon's loneliness 
and gloom — it was not the blighting of her heart's first love 
— that had frozen the smile on the lips of the young girl, and 
changed to the lily's whiteness the roses of her cheek. It was 
a secret that never could be revealed — a cloud that never could 
be rolled away — a horror of thick darkness, that never could 
be illumined with one ray of hope. She stood trembling on 
the brink of a precipice, without one arm to sustain, one pil- 


lar on wliicli to lean, looking down into an abyss of sLame and 
sorrow, the more deep and dark, because an impenetrable cur- 
tain concealed it from the world. In this indescribable deso- 
lation of the soul, religion found her, and throwing around 
her a divine arm, bore her along the margin of the gulf with 
an unfaltering step, directing her gaze to the green fields and 
flowery plains beyond. 

The first year of Ellery's imprisonment drew to a close. 
Mr. Campbell, who had never been prostrated by a day's sick- 
ness, was attacked by strange paroxysms, which alarmed his 
family, but for which he positively refused medical advice or 
assistance. He shrank, too, from the filial cares of Gabriella, 
preferring to remain alone, in a darkened chamber, far from 
the sad and gentle eyes that so mournfully regarded him. 

When the next annual examination of th-e Bank was made, 
the astounding report was again circulated, that there was a 
deficiency of a sum even greater than that of the preceding 
year. That another clerk as unprincipled as Ellery should 
supply his place, seemed a strange coincidence. This young 
man belonged to a highly respectable family, and had influen- 
tial friends in the city. The irreproachable character of Mr. 
Campbell could not now exempt him from suspicion, though 
its birth seemed sacrilege. The unbounded extravagance of 
his wife had long been a subject of censure and curiosity, for 
speculation was busy as to the source whence it was supplied. 

On the day of the investigation, Mr. Campbell was too ill 
to leave his room — too ill to admit any one to his apartment. 
Messengers were despatched with the promise of attending to 
business on the morrow — the morrow which he must await in 
fear and trembling. Night came on. He .would allow no 
lamp to illumine his apartment, avowing that darkness was 
more tranquillizing to the nerves. The moon shone in with a 
struggling beam, just as it had done a year before. The bed 
stood close to the window, so that by leaning towards it, he 
could gather the curtains in his hand, and folding them on one 
side, let in a flood of radiance. The shadows he had sought 
began to be appalling. 

" Once more,'^ he cried, shading his eyes from the insuffera- 
ble splendour, " once more I am passing a terrible, an awful 
crisis. Another victim may be sacrificed, but what is that to 
the preservation of an unblemished reputation ? After the 
sacrifice of Ellery, what if a hecatomb be offered up ? Him 
I have destroyed; but have I not destroyed my own soul also ? 


If I have doomed him to the torture of imprisonment, have I 
not suffered the agonies of the damned as an atonement ? Is 
he not far happier in his lonely cell, than I, stretched on the 
burning coals of remorse ? But suppose I am detected, dis- 
graced, undone ?" 

He paused, and clenched his hands, till the nails cut into 
the shrinking flesh. 

" I was not always a villain," he- continued. " 1 had a 
kind, loving heart. I loved that boy, when I adopted him for 
my own. I loved him till I wronged him, and then I hated 
him for the very injuries I inflicted. I never intended to de- 
fraud. I never thought of stealing. I meant to return the 
money, but the woman whom God gave me as a curse, kept 
tempting me, by demanding means to satisfy her insatiable 
desires. Step by step, I have been plunging deeper and deeper 
in sin and iniquity, till I must go down, down, into the bot- 
tomless pit. I meant to stop after the ruin of Ellery, but 
retrenchment would have excited suspicion. I was already 
lost beyond redemption. For one crime, the son of the morn- 
ing was banished from heaven. Oh ! avenging Deity, can 
there be a deeper hell, than that which burns in the abyss of 
a guilty, remorseless soul ?" 

While he thus held communion with his tortured, self-up- 
braiding spirit, Grabriella entered, and came and stood at his 

" Leave me," cried he sternly. " Did I not forbid all in- 
trusion ?" 

" Send me not from you, father, at a moment like this. 
Close not your heart to sympathy and affection, for you will 
have need of them to comfort and sustain. Oh I my father, 
if the whole world forsake you, I will cling to you — even in 
dishonour and shame I will remember that I am your daughter 

^' Speak, and tell me what you mean ?" exclaimed he, grasp- 
ing the bed-post with both hands, a cold perspiration- bedewing 
his forehead. 

^' Alas ! alas V she cried, wringing her hands, " I thought 
I was very calm — but I sink on the threshold of duty. I have 
heard words not intended for my ear — words which I came to 
repeat, but they die upon my lips. Father, the doom which 
has fallen on Ellery Gray, hangs over you. They say you 
cannot escape it. Oh, how long have I seen its shadow 
coming !" 


"They V lie cried. "Who dares to impeacli m?/ honour? 
M^ character is above reproach. You, who never doubted the 
innocence of EUery, are you sacrilegious enough to suspect 
your own father of crime V 

" Oh ! it is in vain to contend with the Almighty/^ cried 
Gabriella, sinking on her knees, and clasping her hands on 
her bosom. " His hand is upon you, father, and you must 
submit. Just one year ago, in this very room, when I knelt 
at your feet in the agony of a breaking heart, by your words, 
your looks, I discovered your terrible secret. The evidence 
was as strong to me, as if the thunders of Heaven revealed it. 
Oh ! I have greatly sinned in hiding it so long in my own 
soul. I ought never to have risen from your feet, till you 
promised to do justice to the innocent, suffering in your stead. 
By righteous boldness, I might have arrested you in your dark 
path. Nay, my father, tear not your hands from my clinging 
grasp. Turn not away in frantic passion. I love you still — 
in spite of the past and the present — in view of the dreadful 
future — I love you still. You have been tempted, you have 
sinned; but though man may condemn, God will forgive. 
Oh ! my poor, poor father — resist no longer — confess your 
guilt before man and God. Humble yourself in dust and 
ashes at the foot of the cross, lie there till drenched in a 
Saviour's blood, die there pleading for mercy — but live no 
longer in sin and misery; tempt not the wrath of the Lamb 
of God.'^ 

Mr. Campbell, who had at first writhed under her glance, 
and struggled to free himself from the slender hand that 
grasped his own, felt himself under an influence too mighty 
to resist. He gazed upon his young daughter, with her pale, 
beautiful face, lighted up with such a holy lustre, transformed 
as it were to an accusing angel, bearing in one hand the 
broken canons of the God he had defied, and pointing with 
the other to the blood-stained mount where mercy sat en- 
throned. Even in that moment of agony and shame, he felt 
a sensation of relief that his crime was known ; that there 
was no more necessity of struggling to conceal it; that the 
terrible battle between conscience and temptation was at an 
end. He never thought of denying the charge those pale, 
pure, fearless lips had uttered; never thought of breathing 
one word of vindication, or in extenuation of his guilt. Eut he 
had sworn never to survive detection, and resolved to embrace 
death, rather than ignominy. 


" Enough, enough, Gabriella/' he cried, in a hollow, altered 
voice. "I yield to the fate I can no longer contend with. 
But leave me now ! I would prepare myself to meet it as a 

As he raised his hand, in the act of speaking, the pillow 
moved, and Gabriella caught a glimpse of a pistol beneath it. 
She remembered the vow he had made, not to survive de- 
tection, and divined the nature of the preparation to which he 
alluded. With a shriek, she snatched the pistol and dashed 
it through the window to the ground, shivering the glass and 
scattering it like diamonds in the moonlight. It exploded as 
it fell, and at the same moment, Grabriella, faint and sick, 
threw her arms round her father's neck and burst into tears. 

'' You will not put yourself beyond the reach of pardon ?" 
she sobbed. " You will not inflict so awful a curse on your 

" Oh, my Grod !" exclaimed the father, folding his arms round 
his weeping daughter; '-Is there, can there be pardon for a 
wretch like me V 

Scalding tears gushed from his eyes, and rained on Ga- 
briella's cheek. Long and bitterly he wept, and it seemed as 
if every tear softened the iron pressure of despair, girdling his 
heart. The awful thought of self-murder melted away. He 
would surrender himself to the justice of man, he would bow 
before the vengeance of the Almighty. He deserved to suffer 
all that Omnipotence could inflict, or an immortal nature 

The morning found him nerved for the ordeal through which 
he was doomed to pass. \Yhen he presented himself before 
his judges, and made a full and voluntary confession of his 
guilt, indignation for his crime was mitigated by the depth of 
his penitence, the greatness of his remorse. Even justice 
hesitated to crush the man, who laid his body beneath its 
chariot wheels, a waiting victim. But the confession once 
made, the strength which had sustained him suddenly failed. 
A hot, purple flush, dyed the deadly pallor of his cheek and 
brow — and, pressing his hand to his head, he fell back in a 
violent spasm. ' For hours he passed from paroxysm to pa- 
roxysm, such as only attacks the strong frame and wrestling 
spirit. When they subsided he seemed weak as an infant, and 
the grave, instead of the prison, seemed waiting to receive 
bim. But, it is said that a strong will can make death itself 
its vassal. 


Mr. Campbell, who had always appeared to be a yielding 
man, only too easily swayed by the will of others, was resolved 
to put into execution one design. As a dying man he could 
claim exemption from the. immediate execution of justice ; but, 
before passing to the tribunal of the eternal judgment, he would 
drain to the dregs the cup of earthly humiliation. He would 
die in prison. The same bed of straw on which Ellery had so 
long groaned, should receive his failing limbs. Through the 
gloomy grates, which had barely admitted the faint sunbeams 
to the darkened eye of the young man, his guilty spirit should 
struggle upwards to the great Omniscient Judge. 

It was vain to oppose his determination, and, as strength 
returned to him in a miraculous manner, even the physicians 
thought it best to yield to his wishes. He was placed in a 
carriage, with Grabriella by his side, who was resolved that 
neither imprisonment nor death should separate her from him. 
Mrs. Campbell, at the first intimation of their disgrace, had 
sought refuge with some wealthy relatives, never dreaming 
that, like the first of woman-kind, she had yielded herself to 
the delusions of the arch-tempter, and then dragged her hus- 
band into transgression. 

They arrived at the prison at an hour when the convicts 
were all separate in their solitary cells. Ellery Gray raised 
his head as the heavy bolt was undrawn, and the dark, sunken 
eye, in which the light of hope and joy had long been quenched, 
turned slowly and languidly towards the door. His graceful 
form was disfigured by the felon's dress and badge of shame, 
his luxuriant locks were all shorn, and his complexion white 
and wan as the flower of a sunless soil. He caught a glimpse 
of a black, flowing robe, a pale, fair, sad face, such as had 
often in dreams illumined his dungeon's gloom — and he passed 
his hand over his eyes, believing himself the sport of an optical 
illusion. Again he looked, and beheld another well-remem- 
bered figure, not firm and erect, as he had last seen it, but 
bowed, weak and tottering, with haggard features, and dim, 
death-like countenance. Mr. Campbell staggered forward, and 
would have fallen had not Ellery thrown his arms around him. 
He laid him gently on his pallet of straw, while Gabriella 
supported his head on her bosom. 

'' Ellery," cried he, extending his trembling hand, " this 
bed of straw is mine — this grated dungeon is mine — the guilt, 
the ignominy are mine. I have dragged myself hither, a dying 


man, to acknowledge my transgressions at your feet, and pray 
you to forgive me, in the name of a merciful Redeemer/' 

Ellery bowed his head over the dying man and wept. No 
words could be so expressive as those silent tears. The peni- 
tent felt them to his heart's core. 

" Oh ! my son,'' he cried, '' son of my adoption and early 
love ! Do you indeed weep for me ? Am I ever to be for- 
given ? Ah ! if man can forgive, may not the great God have 
mercy? Go forth, Ellery; go from this prison-house to a 
world waiting to redress your wrongs. Go in the glory of 
martyrdom, and wear the crown of honour. You are young. 
Long years of happiness are in store for you— for you and 
Gabriella. But oh, my children, try not to curse my memory." 
He paused, exhausted by the elForts he had made, and his 
heavy eyelids closed. He had accomplished the purpose for 
which he had exerted himself with superhuman strength, the 
energies of life subsided, and nature yielded without further 
struggle. HiB mind began to wander, his pulse to fail, and 
after a few hours of alternate delirium and stupor, his spirit 
passed away. 

Ellery Gray was restored to freedom and honour ] the pub- 
lic, anxious to make restitution for the unmerited sufferings 
he had endured, pressed upon his acceptance offices of emolu- 
ment and distinction. The directors of the bank insisted 
upon paying him the year's salary he had lost in prison— and 
this he accepted as an act of justice; all other pecuniary gifts 
he declined, though offered in the most munificent manner. 

It was long before Gabriella recovered from the terrible 
shock she had received. But it was her father's guilt she de- 
plored more than its consequences, and believing that he died 
repentant, she bowed to the cross and endured the shame, in 
the spirit of her divine Master. If sympathy and tenderness 
could embalm a wounded heart, hers would have been healed. 
And it was healed. Life shared with Ellery must be happy, 
for he was one of those sons of God not often linked with the 
daughters of men. They were happier for their past suffer- • 
mgs, for they were better, and happiness is always commensu- 
rate with goodness. 

The early days of their married life were passed in retire- 
ment, for Gabriella shrunk from a world over which the mem- 
ory of her father's guilt hung a darkening shadow, but her 
nature was too noble not to discard this morbid sensibility. 
She urged her husband to return to society, to rekindle the 
12* ^' 


glorious amlbition of his youth, and give to mankind the influ- 
ence of his talents and his virtues. 

So they removed to the Queen City of the West, rising in 
grace and magnificence on their Ofcio^s native stream. With 
her own mother Gabriella had no longer any association, for 
their paths too widely diverged — hut the mother of EUery 
shared their home — her piety, the rdnbow of the household, 
reminding them of the unfailing promise of God. 

Though Ellery Gray gained influence and honour, it was by 
the exercise of domestic and social virtues, rather than the 
splendour of his public acts. He never would accept any 
office of civil or political distinction, never allow himself to be 
made the idol of the populace. '^ He would not give to party 
what was meant for mankind.'' 

And Gabriella walked by his side, in holy simplicity and 
godly sincerity, wearing no ornament but that of a " meek and 
quiet spirit," no gem but the " pearl of great price" — that 
pearl, which she ha^ found under the ocean wf^es of a great 



The events recorded in the following tale, may be found in 
the annals of a reign memorable for splendour and oppression, 
— the reign of Amurath, one of the most powerful Sultans of 
the East. The usurper and not the inheritor of another's 
throne, he ruled with iron despotism over the subjects to whose 
obedience he felt that he had no legitimate claim ; yet, while 
others crouched beneath his tyranny and trembled at his frown, 
his own heart was secretly a prey to inquietude and distrust. 
There are no pangs more intense than those occasioned by a 
consciousness of crime and a dread of its consecj[uences. Amu- 
rath knew that he was no common usurper — that the path 
which led to his present grandeur had been deluged with royal 
blood — and in the midst of all his magnificence, a voice was 
ever sounding in his ears, that royal blood would one day cry 
aloud for vengeance, and be heard. 

Superstition, which usually holds dark companionship with 
guilt, and which, in that age and clime, maintained a powerful 
sway over the purest minds, added to the depth and intensity 
of these emotions. One of those wild dwellers of the moun- 
tains, who believe themselves gifted with inspiration from 
Heaven, or who impose that belief on the credulity of others, 
had first kindled the fire of ambition in the cold breast of Amu- 
rath, by dim prophecies of his future greatness. The cloud 
which obscured the brilliant unveiling of his destiny, was the 
assertion of the prophet, that while the remotest branch of the 
royal family existed, his power was without base and his life 
without security. He believed that he had exterminated that 
ill-fated race, but the jewels with which he encircled his brow 
were as so many points of living fire to his brain. The fear 
that some scion from the ancient stock still flourished, protected 


140 SELIM. 

from his power, flitted like a phantom in his path and shadowed 
the possession of his glory. 

He was seated one evening on his magnificent divan, with 
a countenance darkened by more than its wonted expression 
of care and apprehension. Selim, his favourite and prime 
minister, stood before him, holding in his hand an unfolded 
letter, whose contents he had just perused, and upon which he 
still bent a stern and steadfast gaze. 

" Knowest thou whose hand has traced those characters ?" 
exclaimed the Sultan, breaking the ominous silence while he 
in vain endeavoured to master its inquietude. 

Selim lifted his head from the bending position it had as- 
sumed, and met the keen, searching glance of the Sultan, with 
one irresolute and troubled. At length his eye became steady, 
while it kindled into an expression of moral sublimity, and 
though his lips quivered with indefinable emotion, he answered 
in unfaltering accents, 


For a moment, Amurath was silent, for there is a power in 
intellect proudly resting on its strength for support, unaided 
and alone, to whose sovereignty the haughtiest despot is com- 
pelled to bow. But the momentary awe was succeeded by a 
gust of stormy passion. 

" Ha ! darest thou thus avow thy league with treachery ? 
Thou, whom I have taken to my bosom, whom I have drawn 
near my throne, and exalted even to my right hand ? Tell me 
the name of him who has penned this seditious scrawl, or by 
the sword of the prophet, every drop of thy false heart's blood 
shall be spilled to expiate thy crime.'' 

" I have formed no league with treason," exclaimed the un- 
daunted Selim. " Still true in my allegiance to my royal 
master, I boldly assert my right to that confidence which I 
have never justly forfeited. Drain the last drop, if it be thy 
sovereign will, from this faithful heart, and in my dying agonies 
I will only remember that thou wert once just to thyself and 

" I demand the proof of thy fidelity," repeated the Sultan 
in a calmer tone, his wrath beginning to yield to the over- 
mastering influence of his favourite. " Tell me the author of 
those fatal lines." 

Selim answered not, but bending one knee to the ground, 
bowed his head in the attitude of oriental humility. 

" Commander of the faithful ! Bid me not expose an un- 

SELIM. 141 

fortunate and misguided being to the fate which he merits. I 
once knew him who has thus clandestinely intruded himself 
on thy notice, but years have passed since we have met, and 
every bond which once united us has long been broken. Be- 
lieve me, sire, it is not the discovery of an obscure individual, 
that can insure safety to thyself or security to thy power. 
There is a powerful existing party in favour of the fallen dy- 
nasty, and were it once known that an offspring of that race 
was still left behind, it would be the signal for anarchy and 
blood. Destroy this letter; its contents are safe in my bosom. 
My life shall be the pledge of my fidelity. It is in thy hands. 
I will not redeem it by the sacrifice of another, even to obey 
the mandate of my sovereign.^' 

'^ Take back thy pledge," replied the Sultan, " and tug thy 
secret to thy breast, but never shall thy nuptials be celebrated 
with the beautiful daughter of Ibrahim, till thou hast un- 
ravelled this dark conspiracy, and discovered the pretended 
offspring of that fallen race, which was created only to serve 
as the footstool of my glory. The morrow was to have been 
gilded by the pomp of thy espousals, but never shall that sun 
rise which shall illuminate the hymeneal rite, till thou hast 
rolled away this shadow from thy name, and fulfilled the com- 
mands of thy insulted lord.'' 

Selim found himself alone. But before we penetrate into 
the recesses of his soul, agitated as it now is with contending 
passions, we will give an explanation of the preceding scene. 

Amurath had intercepted an anonymous letter to Selim, 
whose contents were calculated to awaken the strangest sus- 
picions and the darkest forebodings. The language of this 
epistle was bold and eloquent. It called upon Selim to unite 
himself to a band which was leagued to restore the ancient 
honours of the throne. It spoke of the existence of a princess, 
a daughter of the murdered Sultan, who had been sheltered 
since infancy from the power of the usurper, and whom they 
had sworn to protect with their blood. Selim recognised in 
this daring appeal the characters of his eldest brother, who, 
scorning the restraints of the paternal roof, and obeying the 
impulses of his own wild spirit, had for many years been an 
alien from his home. He had cherished for this brother an 
affection more than fraternal. It was romantic, enthusiastic, 
and in proportion to the ardour of his attachment was the 
bitterness of sorrow which he felt for his desertion. No 
longer interested in the scenes of his youth, he sought the 

142 SELIM. 

precincts of the court, and the favourite of nature soon became 
the idol of fortune. He obtained the unbounded confidence 
of the Sultan, the highest honours royal favour could bestow, 
and, more than all, the love of Zerah, the beautiful daughter 
of Ibrahim. He had that evening entered the presence of 
his sovereign, rich in the possession of all that grandeur can 
impart, and in the reversion of all that hope can offer. He 
now stood desolate and alone, conscious of the abyss which 
yawned before him, for he knew but too well, that the wrath 
of sovereignty succeeding its smile, was the thunderbolt dart- 
ing from the noonday sky. 

He might have denied all knowledge of the bold conspirator, 
who had perilled his life and fame ; but his truth-telling lips 
refused' to sanction even an implied deceit. He had pledged 
his fidelity to Amurath, — he was bound to him by every tie 
of gratitude and honour — ties indissolubly strong. He was 
united to his brother by the holy bond of fraternity — to Zerah, 
the fond, the faithful, the confiding Zerah, by all those hallowed 
and imperishable sympathies which God and Nature have created 
and entwined with the very life-chords of our existence. Could 
he throw off his allegiance to the ruthless usurper, yet liberal 
benefactor, who had elevated him to his present altitude of 
greatness, and brand himself with the name of traitor and in- 
giate ? Never ! Better to die with an unblemished fame, than 
live to bear a stigma so degrading. Could he sacrifice his 
brother to the excited vengeance of Amurath, who would 
search through his kingdom to discover the place of his retreat, 
were he once assured of his rebellious purposes ? Never ! Nature 
would disown the monster who thus violated her sacred law. 
Could he persist in his present course, and wound by his de- 
sertion that tender and innocent heart which beat to adore 
him ? To this there was but one reply, involving life or death. 

These reflections pursued him at the midnight hour, while 
he wandered in a garden, which the liberality of nature and 
the splendour of art had embellished with every charm. G-roves 
of orange trees, covered with their sweet, waxen, white blos- 
soms, filled the air with that sweet, delicious fragrance, which 
reminds one of all that is lovely in the moral and spiritual 
world. Fountains of the purest water tossed their silvery 
foam to the moon's glancing rays, or flowed on in marble 
channels, with low murmuring melody, through bowers of dark 
luxuriance, till their sound died away in music on the ear. 
It was a night of indescribable splendour. The moon shone 

SELIM. . 143 

witli that soft, pearl-like lustre which is only known in oriental 
climes, while, remote from the halo of light which surrounded 
her throne, and over the deep dark blue of a midnight firma- 
ment, the stars were scattered like so many living diamonds, 
concentrating their rays in one flood of light, yet each shining 
distinctly in its own individual glory. Selim felt, for a moment, 
calmed and solemnized before the majesty of creation. Who 
has not felt the influence of night ? Night ! grand, silent, 
religious night ! It is invested with an unapproachable mag- 
nificence, a shadowed splendour, more beautiful and sublime 
than the unveiled blaze of day. We feel as if we had entered 
the inner temple of Nature, and shared in the mystery of the 
divine repose. The soul, disturbed by earth-born cares, 
agonized by earthly conflicts, discards its cares and forgets its 
3onflicts before the altar of Omnipotence, and, conscious of its 
own immortality, identifies itself with the Divinity breathing 
around. Such thoughts as these awed the tempestuous passions 
which raged in the breast of Selim, into rest. He threw him- 
self upon a flight of marble steps, and, reclining his burning 
temples against the cold, smooth surface, remained as motion- 
less as the pillar upon which he leaned. He lay, with his eyes 
intensely fixed upon the illimitable vault above, unconscious 
of everything in the external world, when he perceived the 
light darkening around him, though no cloud floated over the. 
ethereal blue. Half rising from his recumbent position, he 
beheld a majestic figure standing before him in dark relief 
against the heavens on which its lineaments were defined. 
Selim stood erect, and grasping his scimitar with one hand, 
he repelled with the other the approach of the mysterious 

" Selim !" exclaimed the stranger, in the deep tones of sup- 
pressed emotion, and in an instant the hand which grasped the 
scimitar relaxed its hold. Time may dim the recollection of 
familiar features, or change the form whose traits we have 
hoarded in our memory, but the voice — there is a magic in 
the voice. It steals over our souls as the wind floats over the 
chords of some neglected instrument, and the music of remem- 
brance awakens as it breathes. The stranger opened his arms, 
and Selim fell upon his brother's neck and wept. Forgotten 
were desertion and wrongs, danger and fears. Every other 
feeling was absorbed in that of fraternal love. He saw only 
the long-estranged companion of his childhood — he felt only 
the tears of a brother bedewing his cheeks. But the tears of 

144 SELIM. 

man are few, and pride soon conquers tlie weakness of nature. 
Solyman, such was the name of the wanderer, unfolded to his 
brother the purposes to which all his energies were devoted, 
adjured him to break the gilded chains which linked him to 
a tyrant's destiny, and asserted the claims of the orphan 
princess to loyalty and protection. Selim was immovable. 
Amurath — cruel, ambitious, and despotic — was still his gene- 
rous, and, till now, confiding master. He vowed never to 
betray his brother, but that he would devote his life to the 
service of his sovereign. 

"But where,'' he cried, "is the unfortunate princess who 
survives the ruin of her race ?" 

"The secret is buried in my bosom," replied Solyman, 
'^ close as the gems in the casket which contains the testimonies 
of her birth. That casket was committed to my care by the 
dying loyalist, who snatched her, an infant, from destruction, 
and placed her where the hand of the destroyer reached her 
not. Even he, who fosters her in his arms, and shields her 
with parental care, knows not the treasure he wears in his 
bosom. Selim, I have that in my power which thou wilt value 
more than all that Amurath in the prodigality of his favours 
can bestow. Join but our faithful and devoted band, aid us 
in protecting this last remnant of the imperial line, and thou 
shalt be rewarded by the possession of the royal beauty." 

" Talk not of love and beauty," exclaimed Selim, sternly. 
" Thou knowest not what thou utterest." 

" I know not !" repeated the wanderer. " Thinkest thou 
that my heart, because it scorned the cold restraints of the 
world, is dead to human feeling ? I roamed from scenes of 
heartless splendour, but another was the companion of my 
wanderings. An angel spirit in woman's form has ever fol- 
lowed my devious path, smoothed its roughness, and gilded its 
gloom. Gro with me to yon mountain cave and see the fair 
flower which is sheltered there, blooming in loveliness alone 
for me, and then tell me, if thou canst, that I know not of 
love and beauty." 

" Thou dost not understand me," replied Selim, with bitter- 
ness ; "my dreams of bliss are vanished; the paradise of 
love will never cheer this isolated heart. But I would not 
upbraid thee." 

He related to Solyman the history of his betrothal, his 
anticipated marriage, and the fatal denunciation which had 
blasted his hopes. He trusted to the generosity of his brother, 

SELIM. 145 

and appealed to him, by all that was dear and holy, to relin- 
quish a design which was not only endangering his own life, 
but destroying the happiness of a brother. 

Solyman listened in breathless anxiety, but Selim marked 
with indignant surprise, that his eye kindled in the moonlight 
with a fierce delight, which seemed to mock the calm radiance 
it reflected. He gazed on the majestic features, which shone 
with a corresponding illumination, and almost imagined some 
malignant spirit had animated them. That Solyman should 
exult in the ruin he had caused, was as incredible as it was 
maddening. ■ 

"Fear not,^' exclaimed Solyman exultingly, "she shall yet 
be thine. No fraternal blood shall bedew the hymeneal altar. 
Meet me to-morrow, at early dawn, at the foot of yon moun- 
tain which stretches its dark outline on the right, and I will 
show you credentials which shall prove the power of my 

They parted, to meet again at the appointed hour. They 
met in secret at the foot of the mountain, whose summit was 
just gilded by the breaking light. 

Selim earnestly perused the face of his brother, that he 
might penetrate the depths of his soul and learn his latent 
intentions — but he could not fathom them. He saw only the 
bold, unquiet eye, the proud, curling lip and haughty mien, 
which had distinguished him in early years, and gained him 
the appellation of Solyman the Proud. 

The spot which had been selected, was one which nature 
had guarded from intrusion with the most jealous care. On 
one side, a cluster of trees, clothed in the densest foliage, 
presented a wall of living verdure impervious to the eye ; on 
the other, a broad stream, darkened by the boughs which 
overshadowed its banks, poured its tributary stream into the 
Euphrates' distant waves. Selim impatiently demanded of 
his brother the credentials which he had promised to deliver. 
Solyman drew from beneath the foldings of his robe a casket, 
and, touching a secret spring, displayed its brilliant contents. 
It was filled with the richest gems, but there were papers 
concealed in this magnificent bed of diamonds, which Selim 
gathered up, regardless of the splendour which surrounded 
them. From these papers he discovered that Zerah, his be- 
trothed bride, the supposed daughter of Ibrahim, was the 
orphan princess, who had been rescued in infancy from the 
power of Amurath. He, whose attachment to his murdered 

146 SELIM. 

sovereign had led him to protect this lone blossom from the 
storm which had uprooted the parent stem, placed her in the 
arms of Ibrahim's gentle wife, who was watching by the cradle 
of her own slumbering babe. Ibrahim was then absent, but 
she vowed to cherish, with a mother's tenderness, the innocent 
being committed to her care. In the mean time, by a mys- 
terious dispensation of Heaven, her own child sickened and 
died, and when Ibrahim, who had attached himself to the new 
dynasty, returned, he received to his bosom, with unconscious 
loyalty, the lovely offspring of a kingly line. There was an 
inexplicable resemblance between the two infants, and the 
wife of Ibrahim justly deemed that her husband would be 
secured from much solicitude and danger, if he remained 
ignorant of the hazardous charge she had received. She was 
now no more, and they, who now stood side by side, in the 
solitude we have described, were the sole possessors of this 
interesting secret. 

Selim grasped the casket as if it contained his salvation, and 
exclaimed, '' Mine be the bosom to guard these sacred testi- 
monies. I dare not hazard their safety,, even in your hands. 
Should Amurath but dream of her identity with the object of 
his fears, her life would be the instantaneous sacrifice. Even 
now his emissaries are on the watch, sent to every part of his 
kingdom, to discover the victim of his ambition. '' 

^'No — they shall be a pledge between thee and me,^' ex- 
claimed Solyman. '' Thou hast sworn not to betray me, but 
thou art human. My life and that of my brave band are in 
thy power. I have revealed to thee our most secret designs — 
thee, the favourite of a tyrant. What surety hast thou given ? 
Nothing but breath, already melted in air. Shouldst thou 
yield to the weakness of passion, and deliver us into the hands 
of him by whom thou art thyself enslaved, thy Zerah's life shall 
be the sacrifice of thy broken faith. I brought thee here, that 
thou mightst learn the secret of Zerah's birth, but never, 
never, will I relinquish to the friend of tyranny, the treasure 
which expiring loyalty committed to my trust.'' 

He ceased, and, suddenly snatching the casket from the hand 
of Selim, turned and plunged into the stream that rolled near 
the spot where they stood. The action was so sudden and 
impetuous that Selim was hardly conscious of the deed, till 
he beheld his brother severing the waters with one hand, while 
he held in the other the glittering prize. Soon springing upon 
the opposite bank; he waved a parting sign and disappeared in 

SELIM. 147 

the obscurity of the thicket. Selim gazed after this wild and 
singular being with feelings it would be difficult to define; 
but the conviction that Solyman despised the species of honour 
which bound him to Amurath, stung him to the soul. 

"He knows me not/' he bitterly cried; but the recollection 
of Zerah and the dangers which surrounded her, soon banished 
every other reflection. The sun was just beginning to gild 
the mist which curled around the mountain's brow, — that sun 
which was to have shone upon their nuptial vows. The fear 
that Amurath might discover the secret of her birth deepened 
to maddening certainty, as he thought of the almost illimitable 
power which the Sultan exercised over the sordid minions 
which surrounded his throne. He could not believe that the 
knowledge of so important a fact was confined to the bosom 
of one individual. He determined to seek the dwelling of 
Ibrahim, and warning him of some impending calamity, urge 
him to leave the country and bear his daughter to some distant 
region, where they might remain in security till the appre- 
hended danger was past. 

Ibrahim beheld, with astonishment, the clouded brow and 
troubled mien of Selim; not such the mien that bridegrooms 
are wont to wear. The pride of the father rose high in his 
heart, for the beautiful Zerah was the fairest flower of oriental 
climes, and h'e deemed her a gift richer than all the gems of 
the East. To Selim's impassioned representations of unknown 
peril which awaited them, and entreaties for their immediate 
departure, he lent a doubting ear. He was one of the most 
magnificent grandees of the kingdom, and he felt that he pos- 
sessed sufficient power in himself to guard against any evils 
which might threaten him. With proud integrity of purpose, 
he -resolved to stand firm in the strength of conscious rectitude. 
Selim was unprepared for this resistance, and marked, with 
anguish, the suspicions which had entered the breast of Ibra- 
him. He dared not avow the secret which oppressed him ; he 
could not prove, by the necessary credentials, the almost in- 
credible tale, and he feared that ambition, which held lordly 
sway over Ibrahim's minor passions, would lead him to sacri- 
fice the innocence and beauty he had protected while ignorant 
of its imperial origin. Ibrahim summoned his daughter, and, 
commanding her to fathom the mystery of her lover's con- 
duct, or to withdraw the pledge she had given, left the apart- 

Selim had not, till this moment, experienced the overwhelm- 

148 SELIM. 

ing embarrassment of his situation. He stood pale and irreso- 
lute in the presence of her, whom he was to have claimed that 
day as a triumphant bridegroom. The pride which sustained 
bim before his fellow man, was now annihilated by a stronger 
emotion. He did not speak, but throwing himself prostrate 
at her feet, buried his face in the foldings of her robe. And 
surely, if aught in woman's form could justify the adoration 
of the heart, this daughter of a kingly race might vindicate 
the worship she inspired. With eyes of celestial glory; a 
brow on which the regality of nature was enthroned ; a cheek 
on which the rich bloom of the pomegranate was mellowed to 
the softness of the virgin rose ; tresses of dark redundance, 
that wreathed as they fell, forming a native, veil around her — 
she moved amid the maidens of that eastern land, fair and 
transcendent as the moon, when, attended by her starry hand- 
maids, she walks the palace of the skies. The temple was 
worthy of the divinity which it enshrined. Thus clothed with 
the light of material and spiritual loveliness, she seemed born 
to feel and to create a passion, refined above the grossness 
of mortality. Unlike the proud and jealous Ibrahim, she 
doubted not the faith of her lover. When, in broken accents, 
he told her of the interdiction to their nuptials, of the clowd 
that was darkening over their destiny, she wept over their 
blighted hopes, but, instead of withdraw^ing, she renewed her 
vows of love and fidelity. Oh ! pure and trusting is the 
tenderness of woman's uncorrupted heart ! A ray emanating 
from the fountain of all purity and light, shining on with un- 
wavering brightness, undimmed by the gloom of sorrow, un- 
extinguished by the darkness of despair. The darker and 
closer the clouds gather around, the clearer and brighter its 
divine effulgence — the sunshine resting on the coming tem- 
pest, the rainbow gilding its retiring shades. 

Selim felt, in this moment, more than indemnified for all he 
had endured. The conviction of her unalterable love, restored 
to him the energy and eloquence which had ever rendered him 
an irresistible pleader. Zerah yielded to the entreaties which 
Ibrahim had resisted, and, ere they parted, consented to fly 
with him to some far and lone retreat, where, like the desert 
flower which blossoms unseen, save by the All-seeing eye, she 
would be content to bloom alone for him. 

Selim sought the palace of Amurath. He had one of the 
hardest tasks for a noble and an ingenuous mind to perform. 
He was compelled to mask his purpose, to appear with deep 

SELIM. 149 

submission before tbe sovereign, whose resentment lie had in- 
curred. The day must be devoted to the revolting task of 
deception — -the succeeding night to his secret flight. He was 
retracing, with slow steps, the path which led to the mountain 
stream, that he might avoid the guards of the Sultan, when 
he suddenly encountered Solyman, who was hurrying along 
with breathless speed, his countenance indicative of the most 
violent emotion. 

^' Fly !" exclaimed Solyman, in a voice which sounded, in 
Selim^s startled ear, loud as the tec-bir shout. ^'Fly — the 
minions of tyranny are abroad — they rushed upon me, cowards 
as they are, — they wrested the casket from my unguarded 
hand, — their scimitars were flashing around me. I fled, but 
not in fear. I fled in search of vengeance. See,'^ he con- 
tinued, lifting on high his bleeding hand, '' for every drop of blood 
a thousand streams shall flow. Fly through yon secret path, 
— intercept the wretch who robbed me of my treasure. He 
left his comrades far behind. Fear not the power of Amurath. 
I swear to redeem thee or perish by thy side."*^ 

Swift as the lightning's flash he vanished, and swift as the 
same electric messenger of wrath, Selim pursued the path 
which Solyma-n had indicated. That fatal casket ! Had he 
ten thousand lives, he would have perilled them all for the 
■possession of that priceless treasure. Zerah, expiring under 
the hands of the assassin, rose, an embodied vision, before him. 
So powerful was the illusion, that when he caught a glimpse 
of a mantle fluttering amid the foliage of the trees, he called 
out with the energy of despair — 

" Save her ! All-gracious Allah ! save her V 

It was the guard, who was hastening to the Sultan with the 
casket he had stolen. He turned at the sudden adjuration. 
The powerful grasp of Selim impeded his flight; He was a 
man of towering stature and athletic limbs, noted for physical 
strength, and one of the chosen guards of the Sultan. He 
met the stern embrace of Selim, with one which might have 
crushed a feebler frame. They grappled long and fiercely, and 
it was only with the life-blood of his antagonist, that Selim 
redeemed the prize for which he would freely have poured out 
his own. Burying the casket in his bosom, 'he mantled over 
it the folds of his robe ; but the conviction of Zerah's safety 
was immediately followed by the consciousness of his own 
danger. He was surrounded by the Janizzaries, who had over- 
taken the flying steps of their comrade, and who had been sent 

150 SELIM. 

as spies to watcli the secret movements of Selim, He saw 
that it was in vain to contend with an armed band, but lifting 
his bladg aloft, still dripping with the blood of his adversary, 
with that majesty of look and gesture which always had such 
an overawing influence on inferior minds, he commanded them 
to forbear. 

"Stand back,^' he cried; "what would ye dare to do? Go 
to the Sultan — say that ye saw me wing yon felon's soul to 
Paradise. Ay, tell him, too, that ye saw me fling into the 
oblivious waves, what I would not barter for all the riches of 
his kingdom.'^ 

Then opening his blood-stained robe, he drew forth the 
casket of Zerah, and raising it high over their unsheathed 
weapons, dashed it into the waters of the mountain stream, 
then rushing on in a downward and swollen current, forming 
a deep and unsearchable grave. The deed was instantaneous. 
Selim drew a deep inspiration, as if his bosom were relieved 
from some oppressive burden. The secret was now safe in his 
own heart, and no tyrant's power could penetrate that inner 
sanctuary. Turning to the astonished guards, he signed them 
to advance. Accustomed to obey the princely Selim, they 
involuntarily yielded to his sway, and though they marched 
on either side, with naked blades, precluding the possibility 
of escape, he had more the air of a sovereign with his attend- 
ant vassals, than a victim to be arraigned before the tribunal 
of ofi'ended majesty. 

With a dauntless mien and unfaltering step, Selim entered 
the presence of Amurath. He knew the doom that awaited 
him, but, as the bark which is about to be swallowed by the 
ocean wave is borne up over the stormy billows, rising with 
the rising tempest, his spirit rose above the perils which 
threatened to overwhelm him. He stood in immovable silence 
while the guards related the scene which we have described, 
and met with an unquailing eye, the withering glance of the 

The wrath of Amurath was, at first, too deep for words. 
In spite of his denunciations, he had felt, till this moment, a 
confidence in the fidelity of Selim which he deemed it im- 
possible to abandon. The conviction of his perfidy brought 
with it the most exquisite pang. Selim was the only being 
whom he had ever really loved and trusted, and a tear actually 
glistened in his haughty eye, as one by one he gathered up 
the proofs of his favourite's treachery and ingratitude. Selim 

SELIM. 151 

marked the unwonted sign of human tenderness, and his pride 
melted at the sight. He saw once more the trusting friend, 
the munificent benefactor, and casting down his scimitar at 
the foot of the throne, he exclaimed : 

" Commander of the Faithful ! take back thy gift- — take 
even the life which Allah has given— but leave me yet the 
consciousness of my integrity. I am no traitor, sire ; though 
stained with the blood of thy subject, I am guiltless of treason, 
and with my expiring breath I will proclaim my innocence.'^ 

'' Prove then thy innocence,'^ cried Amurath. '^ I swear 
by the golden buckle of the Prophet, if thou wilt reveal the 
name of the supposed offspring of sovereignty, and place her 
in our power, I will freely pardon thy past offences, restore 
thy forfeited honours, and give thee, even this day, thy 
plighted bride." 

Selim folded his arms resolutely over his breast. 

" The secret is buried here !" he cried, " and shall perish 
with me ! No commands can force, no tortures compel me to 
reveal it. I offer thee my life — thou mayst devote it to bond- 
age, to death— but thou hast not, canst not have control over 
my free spirit's will.'' 

" Away then to the darkest dungeon — away till the traitor's 
death is prepared for thee ! My slighted mercy shall turn to 
vengeance now ! The hour of relenting is past. Thy fate 
shall tell to after ages of the ingratitude of favourites and the 
justice of kings." 

Selim bent his head in token of submission. Amurath 
ordered him to be shackled in his presence, that the scene of 
his glory might also be that of his degradation. Then, after 
a fresh ebullition of rage, he commanded the guards to bear 
him to his cell. 

A damp and noisome dungeon, feebly lighted by the rays 
which struggled through the grated walls, was now the abode 
of the late magnificent Selim — sad proof of the evanescent 
nature of all earthly glory. But there is a moral brightness, 
transcending the noonday beams, which can throw over the 
darkest hour of human suffering the radiance of heaven. He 
who is willing to sacrifice his existence for another, is sup- 
ported by the spirit of martyrdom, and that spirit will bear 
him up, as on angel wings, over the gloomy valley of despair. 
But the exaltation of feeling which attends the performance 
of a magnanimous deed, and which sustains the sufferer in the 
moment of physical agony, gradually subsided as he recalled 

152 SELIM. 

the appalling circumstances which accompanied the sacrifice 
he was making. To lay down his life for Zerah, and leave 
behind him an unblemished name — a memory which the brave 
might honour, and the true-hearted mourn — would have seemed 
a trifling effort for a love like his. But to go down to the grave 
in ignominy and shame; to be branded with the name of 
traitor — that withering, deathless curse — while even she for 
whom he died, might learn to scorn his memory, and place 
another on the shrine where once his image dwelt, in the pure 
consecration of her virgin thoughts; the very idea was mad- 
dening. He lifted his shackled hands to heaven, and prayed 
Allah to send down a pitying bolt, to destroy at once the 
wretched being he had made; then let the waters of oblivion 
roll over his remembrance and obliterate it from the records 
of the living. He poured out the bitterness of his soul into 
the all-hearing ear of the Most High, till in the stillness of 
awe, the troubled billows of passion sunk to rest. At last, 
the feeble light of his cell darkened and disappeared. Con- 
scious of the return of night, he wondered that Amurath 
should delay the execution of his wrath. Every moment he 
expected to hear the bolts undraw and to see the ministers of 
death approach, but he had wrestled with the indwelling 
enemy and come off victorious; and thawing himself down 
on the cold floor of his dungeon, he slept more calmly than 
Amurath on his bed of luxury. 

He slept — but his dreams assumed the dark colour of his 
destiny. He wandered in an interminable desert, where no 
oasis refreshed the eye with its emerald beauty — no fountain 
bathed the thirsty lip with its life-giving waters. Languid, 
despairing, he threw himself on the hot, arid waste, praying 
for dissolution, when suddenly the gates of Paradise unfolded, 
a flood of radiance annihilated the gloom, and the '' dark 
heaven of Houris' eyes" beamed with flashing brightness on 
bis vision. The dazzling contrast broke his' slumbers. He 
started and gazed around him. His dream was fled, but the 
illumination remained. A celestial figure, clothed in white, 
bearing a lamp in one fair hand, while she veiled with the 
other her dazzled eyes, stood by the side of the slumbering 
victim. It stood with pallid brow, and dark, resplendent 
locks, beautiful as the angel who is sent to bear the liberated 
soul to the bowers of immortality. But it was no spirit of 
heaven that thus severed the dungeon's gloom.- It was a 
daughter of earth, young, loving and beloved — full of earth's 

SELIM. 153 

warmest affections, yet sharing earth's bitterest woes. It was 
Zerah who stood by her doomed lover, and met his waking 
glance. Almost doubting in what world he existed, he started 
from his recumbent position, while the clanking of his chains 
sent a thrill of horror through the tender bosom that soon 
throbbed wildly against his own. She, who in the hour of 
prosperity and joy repelled with Bashful pride the ardour of 
her lover, as the flower which turns from the sun's meridian 
rays, now threw her pure arms around him and moistened his 
fetters with her tears. 

^^ Hast thou come," he cried, " to travel with me to the en- 
trance of the dark valley, and to receive from my dying lips 
the vows of imperishable love V 

" I come,'' said Zerah, in low, faltering accents, ^' as a mes- 
senger of mercy and pardon. I come in Amurath's name to 
bid thee live." 

^^Live!" exclaimed Selim — and every drop of blood was 
quickened in his veins. ^^ And live for thee !" 

Zerah paused, as if irresolute in what words to utter the 
commission with which she was charged. Bending her head 
till her brow was veiled with her mantling locks, she con- 
tinued — 

'' The Sultan demands of thee the name of the unfortunate 
princess, who lives unknown to all but thee and thy secret ac- 
complice. It is his last offer of mercy. He commissioned 
me, thy plighted bride, to offer thee again the alternative of 
life and death, that love might move the heart inflexible to the 
pleadings of royalty." 

'' Would Zerah counsel dishonour ?" cried Selim, almost 
sternly, his warm hopes chilled to ice as she spoke. " Would 
she purchase my life with the blood of innocence ?" 

" I would purchase thy life with the blood of thousands," 
she wildly exclaimed — and, sinking on her knees before him, 
she locked her hands in the agony of supplication. " I pray 
thee but to live ] what is the world to me ? He claims not 
hlood ; 'tis but a name he asks ', and yet that simple word thou 
wilt withhold, even at the sacrifice of Zerah's life !" 

"Zerah!" he cried, "in Allah's name forbear! Thou 
knowest not what thou askest." 

Zerah gazed earnestly for a moment in her lover's face, 
then rising from her kneeling attitude, every feature of her 
face changed in its expression. The look of intense anguish 
and entreaty, resolved into that of cold, settled despair. 

1-54 SELIM. 

'■'' The trutli has entered my heart/' she said, and her late 
faltering voice was firm and distinct. " Thou lovest this orphan 
daughter of a kingly race. Thou hast pledged thy false vows 
to Zerah, while thy heart is given to her who dwells in thy 
secret bower. And I, insulted and betrayed, I have knelt at 
thy feet in vain, while thou art sacrificing thy life and soul for 
another !" 

" Oh ! cruel and unjust !" exclaimed Selim, in an agony of 
uncontrollable emotion. — '■'■ Dear, unhappy Zerah ! thou hast 
added the bitterest drop to my cup of misery ! For thee to 
doubt my faith ! Oh ! mayst thou never know how fearfully 
this ill-requited faith is proved.^' 

The sound of footsteps was heard in the passage. 

" They come,'' cried Zerah, " to bear me from thy cell. The 
allotted moments are past. "For the last time, oh ! inexorable 
Selim, wilt thou destroy thyself and me ?" 

The grating of the heavy bolt was heard. The paleness of 
death overspread her face, and the cold dew of mortal anguish 
gathered on her brow. Selim felt that the tortures his sup- 
posed perfidy inflicted, were keener than those which the 
cruelty of Amurath could invent. Must then the sacrifice be- 
vain ? While he was ofi"ering himself for the salvation of her 
life, must she believe his perfidious hand was stabbing, with 
deliberate treachery, her too fond, too trusting heart? The 
guards entered the cell. 

'^All-Gracious Allah !" he cried, ''let us die together." 

As the words of this deep prayer fell from the lips of her 
ill-fated lover, Zerah fell back, fainting, in the arms of the 
guard, who sprang forward to receive her before Selim could 
oppose his advance. 

" The bitterness of death is past !" he cried, as he saw her 
borne from his sight, her long hair sweeping the dungeon's 
floor, her eyes closed, and her cheeks white as the folds of her 
snowy robe. 

He heard the bolts re-drawn, and the groan which then burst 
from his tortured heart, was the first and the last which the 
vindictive Amurath extorted from his victim. 

There was the clashing of arms, the neighing of steeds, the 
shouts of a multitude heard that night, near the royal palace. 
The tumult deepened and swelled. The name of Selim re- 
sounded through the midnight air, and thrilled in the -ear of 
Amurath, loud as the notes of the Archangel's trump. It 
was Solyman at the head of the insurgent band. Thousands 

SELIM. 155 

who were groaning under the rod of despotism, yet waiting for 
some master spirit to give the momentum to them, rushed forth 
with gleaming scimitars and joined the war-cry which thundered 
on the gale. They pierced into the dark recesses of cruelty. 
They reached the dungeon of Selim. There, extended on the 
ground, with his face buried in his arms, which were stretched 
listlessly on the damp earth, and his mantle thrown over him 
like a pall, lay the princely Selim. 

"Almighty Allah ! we have come too late !" exclaimed Soly- 
man, throwing himself by the body of his brother, and strain- 
ing to his own that now insensible heart. " Where is the 
imperial murderer ?" he cried, springing from the earth, with 
eyes in which the tear-drops of agony were quenched by the 
blaze of vengeance. " Where is the accursed Amurath ? By 
the Angel of Death, he shall meet his martyred victim, soul 
to soul, before the lightning's bolt could compass the world. 
Follow me — let the cry of ' Selim and Vengeance' rend the 
heavens and echo to the ears of the Prophet's God.'' 

Soon the avenging shout was heard in the walls of the 
palace, followed by the shrieks and wailings of despair. 

Vengeance was sated — the usurper slain. 

Solyman raised his smoking blade and beheld, with a terri- 
ble smile, the blood dripping drop by drop from its shining 

" Selim !" he groaned ; " my noble, matchless brother ! Ac- 
cept the oblation I offer to thee \" 

" He lives •!" cried one of the insurgents, rushing through 
•the crowd. " He is not dead, — they are bearing -him even 
now to the palace with acclamations of joy.'' 

Yes ! Selim lived. He had fainted under the crushing 
weight of his destiny — but his spirit returned to find life, 
freedom, triumph, joy, and love. A throne, too ! Thousands 
hailed him as the successor of the fallen Amurath. 

"No!" said he, turning to his brave brother — "there is 
your true liberator and rightful sovereign." 

" The wilderness is my empire I" replied Solyman — " the 
heavens my canopy, and the rock my throne. I would not 
exchange my sovereignty for the diadem of the East." 

' Selim saw him depart to his mountain home, with feelings 
of admiration and regret. There was a fascination in the wild 
majesty of his character, and the intensity of his fraternal 
love bound him to his heart with strong and holy ties. He 

156 SELIM. 

never forgot that lie owed his present happiness and grandeur 
to his magnanimous spirit and powerful arm. 

United to the beautiful Zerah, now the acknowledged re- 
presentative of a race of kings, he ruled with a golden scep- 
tre over the hearts of his subjects, who gave him the glorious 
title of ^' Selim — the Just — the Magnificent." 


In the vicinity of the metropolis of New England, there 
resided a poor boy. Ignorant of his parentage — without one 
acknowledged relation — he was thrown for care and protection 
upon the family of a tanner. Fortunately for him, this family 
was kind and good; and the delicate and lonely child was 
cherished with parental tenderness. But his benefactors were 
poor, and the wants of a growing family impeded the exercise 
of their loving kindness and Christian charity. The sensitive 
boy often felt as if he were a burden on their care, and sought 
by every means in his power to prove his gratitude and devotion. 
As he was of slender frame, no rough manual labour was im- 
posed upon him ; but with most mistaken tenderness, the office 
of nurse was allotted to him, as congenial to his strength and 
loving disposition. Howard — (the friends of the nameless boy 
had given him a name which every lover of mankind cherishes 
with reverence) — used to wander abroad with the infant, his 
foster sister, in his arms, and a book in his pocket, and seek- 
ing the shade of some natural arbour, seat the infant gently on 
the grass, and taking his book in his hand, alternately scan 
the well-thumbed page and caress the gentle child — who would 
gaze up into the deep blue sky, or down into the clear blue 
stream, with smiling earnestness, as if holding communion 
with kindred cherubs there. His extraordinary powers of 
mind, and exquisite tenderness of heart, were thus early and 
simultaneously developed. 

One beautiful summer afternoon, he thus sat in a little 
bower, near the tannery and not far from the roadside. It 
11 (157) 

158 HOWARD. 

was one of tlie most wildly beautiful, picturesque spots in 
New England, and the young dreamer drank in draughts of 
beauty and sublimity almost maddening, for he had no one to 
whom he could breathe his enthusiastic emotions — his aspirings 
after the destiny to which, even then, he felt conscious that he 
was born. This evening he was roused from his reveries, by 
the approach of a gentleman on horseback. The gentleman 
rode leisurely, with the reins hanging loosely on the horse's 
neck, as if he were taking in the whole loveliness of a land- 
scape shining with the glory-hues of meridian summer. 

He was attracted by the student boy, and the quiet, musing 
infant at his feet. Dismounting and suffering his weary horse 
to browse on the grass by the wayside, he walked towards the 
boy, who threw his book on the ground and rose with natural 
politeness, as the distinguished-looking stranger approached. 
He had never seen a man with so imposing an appearance. 
He was richly and elegantly dressed, and the unmistakable 
stamp of a proud intellect was on his brow. He fixed upon 
the boy an eye keen as a falcon's, and gazed upon him a few 
moments without speaking. There was something magnetic 
in the glance, and Howard felt its influence to his spirit's core. 
Why should the stranger look on him so steadfastly ? He 
was not a beautiful boy, though thought and sensibility often 
made him appear so. He was dressed in a suit of brown 
homespun, and his shirt-collar, though white, was of the 
coarsest domestic. 

" What is your name, my boy ?" asked the stranger. 

" Howard, sir." 

" Does your father live here, at the tannery ?" 

" No, sir — I never had any father." The strangej* smiled. 

^^ And your mother — where does she live ?" 

^' She's dead; she died when I was a baby. Mrs. Mason 
took me home, and I've lived with her ever since." 

The gentleman kept his unreceding gaze upon the boy, 
whose naturally pale cheeks at length grew crimson under his 

'^ Are you fond of reading ?" he asked, pointing to the book 
lying on the grass. 

" Yes, sir — I love it better than anything else in the 

" What book is that ?" 

" It is the Life of Franklin, sir. I almost know it by heart. 
I love to read of great men who were once poor boys; be- 

HOWARD. 159 

cause " lie stopped and blushed, and began to pull the 

leaves from the low branches sweeping over him. 

" Because what, my boy ? Do not be afraid to speak." 

" Because, though I am a poor boy now, I think I could be 
a great man some day, if I tried hard." 

" Do you go to school?" 

" No, sir." 

'^ Why not?" 

" I have to stay at home and take care of the baby." 

A scornful smile played for a moment on the lips of the 
stranger, followed almost instantaneously by a dark frown. 

" A pretty employment for a boy like you !" 

Howard shrank from the expression of that haughty, hand- 
some face looking down upon him. An irresistible repulsion 
made him draw back as far as possible from him . 

" It's all I can do for them," answered the boy — " and if 
it hadn't been for them, I should have been a beggar." 

" Well, I shall be back in a few days, and will call and see 
Mr. Mason ; perhaps I can do something for you. You are 
too smart a boy to spend your time watching such little brats 
as these." 

The gentle little baby, who had apparently listened with 
quiet interest to the conversation thus far, here suddenly put 
its chubby sun -browned arms round one of the stranger's ankles, 
and looked up smilingly in his face. 

" Let go," he exclaimed, in a stern voice, drawing back so 
suddenly that the little creature, rudely loosened from its 
hold, was thrown upon the ground, to the great indignation 
of Howard, and probably much to its own astonishment. 
Howard sprang forward, raised his protege in his arms, and 
giving a rebuking glance at the stranger, exclaimed — 

" You are not a kind gentleman, sir, or you wouldn't hurt 
a baby. I don't wish you to do anything for me, I thank you, 

The stranger laughed, touched the boy's head lightly with 
his whip handle, told him he was a boy of spirit and bid fair 
to be a hero ; then sauntering back to his horse, he mounted 
him and rode away. 

" I do not like him," said the boy ; " he is not good ; he 
is cruel and wicked, I know. If I cannot be a great man with- 
out his help, I don't want to be one at all. Poor little Alice I" 
continued he, kissing away the tears that stood on the baby's 

160 HOWARD. 

velvet cheeks. ^' How could he call you a hrat, when you are 
so sweet V 

About a week after this incident, the stranger called on Mr. 
Mason, and had a long conversation respecting the boy, the 
result of which was communicated to him after his departure. 

" Come here, Howard," said Mr. Mason, taking the boy's 
hand and drawing him between his knees. " There's been a 
gentleman here, who says he has taken a fancy to you. He's 
going to take you home, send you to school, and make a man 
of you.'^ 

" Is he V cried Howard, an expression of unconquerable 
repugnance settling on his countenance. 

^''You are to leave us," continued Mr. Mason, his voice 
growing rather husky in its tone, ^^and forget that you have 
ever been with us. He is a rich, proud man, and it would be 
a disgrace to him to have it known that a tanner's boy was in 
his house." 

" ril never live with him — I'll never leave you for him, 
sir," answered Howard, emphatically; ''I cannot tell the rea- 
son, but I Jiate him." 

It was strange to hear so gentle a boy speak in such bitter 
terms, especially of one who had made him so munificent an 
offer. But an unconquerable aversion to the stranger, made 
him recoil with loathing from a proposition which promised 
him all the intellectual advantages for which his young and 
ardent mind was earnestly panting. The moral principle 
triumphed over ambitious desire, and he resolutely refused 
to leave his benefactor, for the protection of the haughty 

" He refuses !" exclaimed the gentleman, when informed 
by Mr. Mason of the boy.'s obstinate determination. " The 
ungrateful little wretch ! well, let him stay and be a tanner, if 
he will. I would have done something for him, but now " 

Here he uttered a blistering oath, and departed. 

Years passed on. The self-education of Howard continued, 
marked by the most astonishing results. The little Alice 
was grown to be a lovely, affectionate child, no longer requir- 
ing of him the cares of a nurse, though still clinging to him 
with more than sisterly affection. Nothing more was heard 
of the stranger, who had so singularly crossed his path. There 
were times when the boy felt the "strong necessity" of acquir- 
ing knowledge urging him so powerfully, that he looked back 
with keen regret upon the unaccountable moral antipathy, 


HOWARD. 161 

that had led him to reject an offer which would have placed 
him in that station of life, an inner voice told him he was 
born to fill. As he grew older, the difference between his 
own nature and those around him became more and more ap- 
parent, and discontent, which he deemed ingratitude, prayed 
upon his heart. He assisted Mr. Mason in the labours of the 
tannery, with all the zeal of which he was possessed, but his 
frame was slender, and what little strength he had was con- 
sumed by an insatiable thirst for knowledge — a mental fever, 
that became more and more burning and intense. A number 
of literary gentlemen, who heard of the extraordinary appreur 
tice boy of the tanner, at length came to see him, and through 
their influence, he obtained admission into one of the collegiate 
institutions of New England. 

He left the humble home, where he had been so kindly 
sheltered, with many tears, but kindling hopes. Alice, the 
pretty and affectionate Alice, was inconsolable at his departure, 
but he promised to return every vacation and teach her all he 

Poor, poor boy ! how little he knew the future which 
stretched out before him, a green, enchanted land. The home 
he left was a Paradise to the one which now received him. 
He knew not the conditions on which he was permitted to 
receive the droppings of this sanctuary of leaning, where he 
hailed with rapture the dawn of his literary Millennium. He 
was compelled to perform the most servile offices for the other 
students, as the wages of his own instruction. He carried 
wood and water up the high and winding stairs, usually found 
in such buildings, till his franie, which, as we have said before, 
was anything but robust, bowed beneath the burden, and his 
spirit groaned under the Egyptian bondage of his destiny. 
Still he toiled over his scholastic duties, till he distanced all 
his competitors in the literary career on which he had entered 
with such soaring ambition. 

At last, in an auspicious moment, he became acquainted 
with some students of Harvard University, and learned with 
rapture, that he might there be received into the cherishing 
arms of the Alma Mater, freely and unconditionally, without 
any of those depressing circumstances which weighed him 
down with a consciou'sness of degradation. He sought those 
groves sacred to science, and he was welcomed — as the child 
of genius and want is ever welcomed there — as a son and a 

162 HOWARD. 

brother. Here his heart was warmed^ his mind expanded, his 
views elevated. 

He became the candidate for the highest collegiate honours, 
and so great was the love and admiration of his classmates, 
thej would gladly have woven with their own hands, the 
laurels which were soon to decorate his brow. 

But while thus gaining friends and admirers among the 
wealthy and noble, he did not forget his early benefactors, his 
sweet foster sister. Most of his vacations were passed at the 
humble home of his childhood, and he fulfilled his promise to 
^lice of imparting to her, as far as possible, the information 
he acquired. In summer, he would lead her to the green 
bowers, where he used to sit with her, when, an unconscious 
infant, she lay upon the grass or nestled in his arms, and read 
with her the pages where genius had impressed its burning 
lines. Child as she was, he never looked forward into life, 
without associating her with all its hopes and all its joys. 
Should he become distinguished in any of the great paths 
opened to the sons of ambition, she should be his companion, 
sister, or something dearer still — and the child, though she 
dreamed not of his future visions, read, studied, thought, and 
felt, with reference only to him. 

But poor Howard did not always find his path strewed with 
roses. In spite of the most rigid economy, he could not help 
running in debt. He had no means to meet the demands 
against him, and he knew not where to turn for assistance. 
He could not drain the purse of the good tanner, the father 
of Alice. He shrank from the thought of taxing the kind- 
ness of his classmates — for he was proud — because he was 

One evening he sat down in the loneliness of his chamber, 
with a heavy heart. His head ached with the burden of great 
thoughts, his spirit with the burden of destiny. 

He thought of the past with bitterness, of the future with 
despair. He remembered the apparently munificent, but 
haughty stranger. As he had grown older, something had 
whispered to him the secret of the stranger's interest. He 
had an instinctive conviction that he was his own father, who, 
having left his infancy to destitution, refusing him even the 
dignity of a name, perhaps urged by an importunate conscience, 
was willing to receive as a dependent on his bounty, one whom 
fehame prevented from acknowledging as his son. Never had 
he felt so deeply the wrong and injustice inflicted upon him — 

HOYfARD. 163 

I)y Ibeing defrauded of the holiest riglits ef nature ; never bad 
he felt such inappeasable heart-yearnings. 

Oh ! for a mother's bosom on which to pillow his aching 
heart — a sister's fond arms to twine him with one dear caress ! 
What was literature^ fame, honour, to him ? Who would exult 
in his success, or glory in his renown ? A gentle child 
appeared to glide before him ; a child in the first, tender bloom 
of girlhood; and fixing on him her soft, loving eyes, seemed 
to .say — ''.Have you forgotten Alice ?'^ 

At the remembrance of Alice, his poverty pressed upon him 
with a crushing weight. He tried to banish her from his 

' At length he remembered Him, who feedeth the young 
ravens when they cry, and took up his Bible, which lay before 
him, and on which he had just pillowed his aching temples. 
He turned to the forty-second Psalm ; and when he came to 
the fifth verse, 

" Why art thou cast down, my soul ? and why art thou 
disquieted within me ? Hope thou in God ! for I shall yet 
praise him, who is the help of my countenance and my God \" 
he read it aloud, in devout and trembling accents. 

" Forgive me, my God,'^ he cried, lifting the Bible up- 
ward, as if he would make it the wings of his soul, when a 
shower of bank notes fell from the fluttering leaves, as if the 
divine pages were suddenly animated by a living spirit of bene- 
volence. The collegians, conscious of his necessities, and know- 
ing too his evening custom of reading the word of God, had 
adopted this method of relieving his wants, without wounding 
his pride. Sinking on his knees, in an ecstasy of gratitude, 
he accepted the bounty as from the hand of Providence, 
and the dark cloud of despondency passed away from his 

So onward he urged his- course — upward and onward — 
cheered by friendship, inspired by hope, warmed by zeal, lifted 
by ambition, and more than all, sustained and sanctified by 
religion. From the bright promises of such a youth, what a 
glorious manhood might not be anticipated ! But alas ! the 
scourge of New-England came on the wings of the chill eastern 
blast, and marked him as its victim. The eyes, which had 
been the lamps of science, now burned with consumption's 
wasting fire — its dry, hectic cough checked the clear, impas- 
sioned utterance, and its slow agonies arrested the elastic and 
buoyant step. It was hard to die thus in the day-spring of his 

164 HOWARD. 

fame. He had just reacted that height from wbich he could look 
down and back upon the rough ascent he had climbed, and see 
the green fields and magnificent plains stretching beyond. He 
could hear the music of the distant waters as they gushed and 
sparkled in the sun. As Moses gazed froin the summit of 
Mount Pisgah, on that promised land he must never be per- 
mitted to enter, he cast his yearning eyes upon the scene, over 
which the curtain of death was slowly, darkly descending. 
Still he bowed his head and exclaimed: "Even so. Father; 
for so it seemeth good in thy sight. '^ 

He was borne to his early home. Alice, his child-love, sat 
by him, as of old, and he talked to her of heaven and heavenly 

Just before he died, he learned that a rich and proud gen- 
tleman of the city of Boston, had left him the heir of all his 
fortune, acknowledging him to be his son, with his last breath. 

" It is too late,'^ cried the dying youth. " What are riches 
and honours to one on the threshold of the eternal world ?" 

Yes, it was too late for him, but .the child of his benefactors 
was made the recipient of his wealth, and he was thus enabled 
to pay the debt of gratitude. His spirit still walked the earth 
in the gentle form of Alice, who was indeed one of the minister- 
ing angels sent by God, to let mankind see of whom the king- 
dom of Heaven is made. 

Howard died — but his memory is immortal. His name is 
hallowed in Harvard's venerable walls. It is associated with 
all that is best and brightest and most worthy of emulation. 
His monument is a shrine where pale genius comes to worship 
and gather strength, from example, to struggle with the ills of 
destiny and the will — to be victor in the conflict. For Howard 
was victorious, though he died, at last, a victim to the life- 
battle which he had undauntedly fought. He gained immor- 
tality — he left a name — a pure, a glorious name — and the great 
purposes of his being were accomplished. 

'Tis not where wealth uprears its pillared dotae, 
That pilgrim genius finds its favourite home — 
'Tis not where grandeur dwells, rolls the deep tide 
By which the springs of science are supplied. 
The mvid on its sublimest pinions soars, 
When clouds are heaviest, and the tempest lowers ; 
And from its eagle eyrie, in the skies, 
Smiles on the dark storms that below it rise. 


^^No, I will not go to-night/^ exclaimed Blanche, taking 
from her head a bandeau of pearls and tossing it into the 
hands of her attendant. ^^No, I will not go- — I am weary 
most of all of talking and listening to nonsense. I will stay 
at home, and enjoy the supreme luxuries of simplicity, quiet, 
and solitude. Yes ! solitude ! for dear BIrs. Channing is gone 
to an old-fashioned tea-party, and you. Elsie, are not to disturb 
me, after I have once composed myself to the task of admiring 
myself, hy myself.^^ 

" But this beautiful dress V cried her obsequious chamber- 

^'Put it back in the wardrobe.^' 

^' These pearls?'' 

'■'■ In the case." 

" These flowers V 

^^ Ah ! give me the flowers. Tliey are beautiful, they 
breathe of nature, and I love them. Here, take this heavy 
comb from my hair,'' continued the capricious beauty, and 
then shaking her hair loosely over her shoulders and untying 
the bouquet, she twisted the flowers into a careless garland and 
twined it round her head. 

" And now, Elsie, give me that simple white robe, fastened 
with blue ribbons. You must confess it is ten thousand times 
prettier than the one you have just put aside. Ah, me ! 1 
wish I were nothing but a plain country lassie, left to wander 
about at my own sweet will." 

'^ I think somebody has her own sweet will now," said Elsie 
to herself, vexed to think that her young and beautiful mis- 
tress was going to shut herself up at home, instead of exhibit- 
ing herself to the admiring crowd. 



"But wliat sliall I say to Mr. Orne, when he calls to attend 

" Tell him I cannot, will not go to-night." 

" He will he angry. '^ 

" I care not — but he is too stupid to he angry. BesidC; lie 
has no cause, for I gave no promise to accompany him." 

Elsie, who was accustomed to the varying moods of Blanche, 
sighed as she put away the beautiful paraphernalia of fashion 
with which she had hoped to adorn her mistress for the even- 
ing's fete, while Blanche, telling her she had no further need 
of her services, descended to the little room she called her 
boudoir. And a charming little room it was — a perfect hijou 
of a room — fitting palace for a fairy queen. It is no wonder 
that she liked sometimes to rest on that soft, blue-cushioned 
sofa, and look around on all the exquisite adornments her own 
taste had selected. Curtains of blue damask, her favourite 
colour, shaded the window; the glass doors of her cabinet were 
lined with the same cerulean hue ; and even the figures of the 
carpet were blue, melting off in a background of white. Little 
Cupids, painted in fresco, on the ceiling, seemed to fan her 
with their wings, and Cupids still smaller, fashioned of marble, 
supported the lamps that glittered on the mantel-piece. There 
were ever so many Cupids, little, less, least, bronze, porcelain, 
and glass, on the shelves of the etagere, which looked like a 
royal baby -house, with its magical toys and indescribable cu- 
riosities. The only thing of use on which the eye could rest 
was a magnificent harp, supported by a lazy-looking Cupid, 
lurking in the corner of the apartment, thus throwing the 
illusion of mythology and poetry over an instrument in itself 
most poetical and romantic. Blanche gathered back the azure 
folds of the curtains into the gilded hands that issued from the 
walls, ready to grasp them, drew the light sofa near the win- 
dow, and seating herself upon it, looked admirably in keeping 
with all surrounding objects. She, too, wore the livery of 
white and blue, and soft and bright sparkled her bright blue 
eyes beneath her white brow. Her heart, moreover, was 
clothed with the whiteness of innocence, and the blue of hope 
fluttered gayly as a silken ribbon over a spotless surface. 
Though the child of wealth, and the idol of fashion, she was 
yet unspoiled by their influence. Her caprices were white, 
fleecy clouds, floating over the clear blue of an April morning. 
One thing more completed the livery. Blanche, sweet, charm- 
ing, capricious, blue-eyed Blanche, with sorrow we confess it, 


Had a tinge of the hlues. Listen to her thoughts, as they 
move with their low whispers the folds of her muslin robe : — 

^''I want to be alone, and yet I want some one near to whom 
I can say — 'How sweet it is to be alone/ The pleasures of 
society — how I panted for them when I was a foolish little 
school girl, pining for liberty that I cannot now enjoy ! And 
for a while, I did enjoy them vividly, wildly. It was enrap- 
turing to be thought beautiful, to be admired and caressed and 
loved. Loved? No. I have never yet been really loved. 
Love disdains flattery and adulation. My own heart will bear 
witness when it is true and honest. ^ Yes,^ added she, laying 
her hand on its gentle, uniform throbbing, ' the voice has 
never yet breathed into my ears that can quicken the pulsa- 
tions of this heart of mine. I look in vain among the cold, 
vapid devotees of fashion for one touch of nature, one flash 
of passion. I shall mingle with them till I become as cold, 
as vain, as vapid myself. I shall live and die, and the world 
will never know what I might have been, from what I am, 
and what I shall be.'' 

" And yet," added the ennuyee^ ^^ I am wrong to say I have 
never yet been loved. There is one I know, who, I believe, 
loves me well, and whom I have sometimes thought I might 
love in return, did I meet him anywhere save in the cold halls 
of fashion. Could he throw any romance, any mystery around 
him, I might possibly become interested in him. There 
would be nothing heroic or self-sacrificing in my loving him, 
for fortune smiles upon him, and friends are zealous to pro- 
mote his cause. Were he poor, I could enrich him with my 
wealth. Were he lowly, I could ennoble him with my con- 
nexions ; or were / poor and lowly, he could prove the disin- 
terestedness of his, attachment. I cannot bear this common- 
place kind of wooing, this dull, matter-of-fact kind of existence. 
I could envy the wild love of O'Connor's child, Hhe bud of 
Erin's royal tree of glory,' though thrice-dyed in blood was 
the tissue of her mournful story." 

If the remarks of Blanche seem incoherent, let it be re- 
membered that she is conversing with herself, and every one 
knows how wildly the thoughts may run,. when imagination is 
let loose. 

" Let me see," said the romantic damsel ; " cannot I do 
something to charm the solitude that already begins to weary 
me ? Ah, there is my harp ) I do love its sounding strains. 
How charming it would be to have some young hero bending 


over me as I play, while I drank in inspiration from his kin- 
dling eyes V 

Drawing the harp near her, she passed her hand over its 
golden chords, and made a sweet wild medley of strains, caught 
Tip from many a remembered song. Her hair, as it swept over 
her white arms, against the glittering wires, resembled the 
golden locks of the maiden whose ringlets were twined into 
the chords, from which such exquisite music has been drawn. 
Long she played and sang, till the little Cupids on the walls 
looked as if they were flying about inspired by her thrilling 
notes. She did not hear the sound of entering footsteps ; but 
a shadow fell upon the harp, and she looked up. A tall dark 
figure stood before her, black from head to foot. Supposing 
it a negro who had thus boldly intruded into her presence, 
she uttered an exclamation of terror, and sprang towards the 
door. " 

" Pardon this intrusion,^^ said the stranger, in a gentle voice, 
bowing gracefully as he spoke ; '' I did not mean to terrify, 
and if you will grant me a few moments' audience, you will 
find you have no cause of fear.'' 

She observed with astonishment, that the hand which be 
slightly extended in speaking was almost as fair as her own, 
while his face was as black as night. Still trembling with ter- 
ror, though somewhat re-assured by the sweetness of his voice, 
she ventured to look on him more steadfastly, and discovered 
that he wore a mask of black enamel, above which his raven 
black hair clustered, making of the head one ebon mass. 

'^How did you gain admittance?" she asked, tremulously. 
^' And what is your errand with me ?" 

"Will you forgive me," he answered, "when I say, that, 
attracted by the sweetness of your voice, as it was borne 
through the open windows, by the breath of night, I have 
dared to present myself before you, believing that the same 
instinct which caused my presumption will plead for my pardon, 
and secure my welcome.'^ 

" Indeed, sir," exclaimed Blanche, her cheek glowing with 
anger, "this is an intrusion I consider unpardonable. As 
neither pardon nor welcome awaits you here, I trust you will 
leave me immediately. To a gentleman, the request of a lady 
has the authority of a command." 

Blanche was astonished at her own courage in thus daring 
to address the masked and mysterious stranger. Though 
angry at his presumption, she could not rejDress a keen delight 


at an adventure so singular and romantic. The indescribable 
charm of his voice had disarmed her terror, and the grace and 
dignity of his mien spoke the polished and high-bred gentle- 
man. But the black mask — the sudden entrance — the lonely 
hour — the stillness of the night — these things pressed upon 
her heart, and its throbbings became quick and loud. 

" Permit me/' said the stranger, " before I depart, to repay 
you, if possible, for the soothing pleasure your music has im- 
parted. I, toOj am a son of song, and like the bards of Os- 
sian, I love to wake the breezy melody of the harp-string." 

While he was speaking, he approached the instrument from 
which she had retreated at his entrance, and kneeling on one 
knee, he swept his hands over the chords, making a prelude 
of such surpassing sweetness, she held her breath to listen. 
Then miqgling with the diapason the rich tones of his voice, 
he began a song whose words seemed the improvisation of 
genius, for they applied to herself, the hour, the meeting, in 
strains of such wondrous melody, she felt under the dominion 
of enchantment. Never before had she heard such music as 
came gushing through that ebon mask, filling the room with 
a iiood of harmony which almost drowned her sinking spirit. 
Unable to bear up under the new and overpowering emotions 
that were oppressing her, she sunk back on the sofa, and tears 
stole from her downcast eyes. 

The stranger paused, and rising, leaned gracefully on the 
harp from which he had been calling forth such celestial 

" You weep,'' said he ; " but they are not tears of sorrow. 
You would not exchange those tears for the false smiles which 
would have gilded your face had you mingled in the crowd, 
an instinct of your heart led you this night to avoid. You 
shunned the giddy throng. You sought the solitude of this 
delicious apartment only that you might meet a kindred spirit 
here. Farewell! we shall meet again. No earthly barrier 
^could now keep us asunder.'' 

Stooping down and picking up a rose that had fallen from 
her hair, and putting it in his bosom, be added — ^^ 

" This flower shall be sent to you as a token when I am again 

He turned, and was about to leave the apartment, when, 
urged by irresistible curiosity, she exclaimed — 

"Before you depart, let me behold the face of my mysteri- 


ous friend, and tell me why you wear so strange and solemn a 

" I cannot break a vow that I have imposed on myself/' re- 
plied the black-masked stranger. "■ It is only at the nuptial 
altar that I can lift the dark visor which conceals my features. 
The woman who can love me well enough to unite her fate 
with mine, unknowing what this mask conceals, whether it be 
matchless beauty or unequalled deformity, will alone have 
power to remove the disguise whose midnight shadow now 
darkens the moonlight of your beauty. Do you believe that 
spiritual, high-souled, trusting woman exists ? Do you believe 
such love can be found V 

" I know nothing of love,'' she answered, endeavouring to 
speak coldly; but her voice unconsciously obeyed ' the spell 
that was upon her, and its modulations were soft as the breath- 
ings of her own dulcet harp. 

" Happy is he who will teach thee its divine lore," said the 
stranger, again seating himself by her side. ^'0, maiden, 
more beautiful than the dream of the poet, more pure than 
the vision of infancy/' continued he, in a strain of romantic 
enthusiasm, such as she never had expected to hear from mor- 
tal lips, " be it mine to instil this wisdom into the heart that 
is even now sio-hino:; to receive it. Mine be the master hand 
that will touch the golden chords of sympathy, and awaken 
all your slumbering being to the music of love." 

" 0, that I dared to believe, that I dared to listen !" cried 
Blanche, carried out of herself by an influence that seemed 
electric ; " but this interview, so sudden, so mysterious, your 
strange vow, your dark eclipse, the commanding power you 
exert over my will — ah, leave me. I cannot bear the oppres- 
sion that is weighing down my heart." 

" I obey you," he cried, again rising. '' For worlds, I would 
not encroach on the goodness that has forgiven my presump- 
tion, or the gentleness and sensibility that plead even now, 
with eloquent tongue, the cause of your mysterious friend. 
Farewell. For^ the rose of which I have robbed you, accept 
this diamond ring." 

Taking her hand and encircling her finger with the brilliant 
token, he passed through the door like a vision of night, leav- 
ing her speechless and spell-bound. So startling, so thrilling 
was the pressure, she sat like one in a nightmare. She had 
almost imagined herself in a dream, in the presence of her 
mysterious guest ; but the warm, soft pressure of that ungloved 


hand assured her of the reality of the scene. Then the ring 
that glittered on her finger with such surpassing brightness, 
the golden circle with its starlike gem that seemed to burn into 
her flesh, so strongly did it warm and accelerate the current 
that was glowing and rushing through her veins ! Astonished, 
bewildered, terrified, but charmed at a romance so exceeding 
her wildest hopes, she flew up stairs to her dressing-room, 
where Elsie sat slumbering in an easy chair, thus beguiling 
the time of her mistress's absence. Blanche had always made 
a confidant of Elsie, and now her heart would have burst with 
its strange secret if she could not have confided it to another. 
She awoke the slumbering girl, and related the astonishing, 
the almost incredible incident. 

" Impossible V cried Elsie ; " it must have been a delusion 
of the senses.'' 

" But this ring — this surely is a reality. Did you ever 
see anything so surpassingly brilliant ?" and she turned the 
radiant token till it flashed back the lamplight dazzlingly into 
the wondering eyes of the girl. 

" 0, for the love of the blessed Virgin !" she exclaimed 
(Elsie was a devout Catholic,) " for the love of your own sweet 
soul, don't wear it. It is a magic ring, I am sure, and the 
black man that put it there may be Lucifer himself, for aught 
you know.'^ 

" My good Elsie, how can you be so foolish and superstitious ? 
Even if I could believe in the incarnation of an evil spirit, it 
never could assume a form so gracious, or speak in a voice so 
sweet. 0, never did I hear such a voice of music ! Though 
I could not see his face, his eyes beamed resplendently 
through his mask, and his hand is the fairest I ever beheld." 

" But why should he put on that ugly mask, unless he has 
some evil purpose ?" 

" He is under a vow to wear it till" 

Blanche paused and blushed, and then blushed more pain- 
fully, because she was so foolish as t*o blush at all. 

" 1 have no doubt he wears it to'cover some horrible mark,'^ 
cried Elsie, shuddering and crossing herself. 

" Impossible." 

" I dare say he has the face of a skeleton underneath. I 
have heard of such ..things." 

" Silence, Elsie ; it is sacrilege to talk as you do," 

But though Elsie bridled her tongue, the disagreeable im- 
pression her word>s had produced still remained. The possibility 


of their trutli chilled the glowing romance of Blanche's feelings, 
and checked the enthusiasm with which remembrance dwelt 
on her mysterious visiter. Blanche bound Elsie bj a promise 
not to mention the incident to Mrs. Chauning, the lady who 
acted as maternal guardian to the orphan Blanche, and pre- 
sided over the mansion of her youthful charge. All the next 
day Blanche remained in a kind of dreamy abstraction, the 
colour coming and going on her. beautiful cheek, and her soft 
blue eyes suffused with a misty languor. Sometimes she de- 
lighted herself in picturing the features that the shrouding 
mask concealed as the ideal of manly beauty ; then again the 
horrible suggestions of Elsie would recur to her and fill her 
with nameless apprehensions. She thought of the veiled 
Prophet of Khorassan, the doom of the helpless Zelica, and 
the unutterable horrors concealed by the silver veil. ' She re- 
membered the beautiful Leonora, and the phantom horseman, 
whose skeleton visage was hidden by the closed bars of his 
visor, and who bore his confiding bride to the ghastly church- 
yard and the yawning grave. She remembered that his form 
wore the semblance of manly grace, and that his voice had a 
tone of more than earthly sweetness. 

" How foolish, how childish I am !" thought she, smiling at 
the superstitious images on which she had been dwelling. 
" The silver-veiled Mokanna and the Phantom Husband of 
Leonora were beings existing only in the imagination of the 
poet, whom the genius of the painter has also delineated. 
But the black-masked stranger is a living, breathing actuality, 
of whose existence and presence I have a dazzling token, ^' 

Another idea disturbed her excited brain. Perhaps she 
was the sport of some bold youth, who, knowing her romantic 
temperament, had thus sought to play upon her credulity 
and expose her to the ridicule of the world. So strong be- 
came this conviction that when evening came on, and she was 
summoned, as usual, to entertain her admiring visiters, she 
fancied she could trace in many forms a similitude to the linea- 
ments of the graceful stranger. But no. It was an illusion 
of the imagination. No figure half so 'graceful, no voice half 
so sweet as his. Never had the conversation of her companions 
seemed half so uninteresting -and commonplace, never had the 
hours appeared so long and leaden. She played upon her harp, 
but her own strains recalled the ravishing melody of his, and 
her hands trembled as they swept the sounding strings. She 
talked and smiled, and tried to chain her wandering thoughts, 


but they would stray far out into the moonlight night, where 
fancy followed the dark form of the stranger. As her white 
hands threaded the golden wires, the diamond rino; flashed 
upon her eye its ominous splendours and filled her with wild 

" St. Cecilia called down an angel from the skies/' said one 
of her guests, gazing upon the gem that corruscated upon her 
finger,.Ji^ but you seem to have drawn one of the stars of heaven 
from its home in the skies, to sparkle upon your hand. There 
must be a magic in that ring, for never did your harp discourse 
such witching music." 

Blanche turned away her face to hide her conscious blushes, 
and at the same time the words of Elsie, foolish and supersti- 
tious as they were, occurred to her, and the roseate cloud 
melted away in the whiteness of snow. 

One by one her guests departed, and she was left alone. 
She listened to the echo of their departing footsteps, till the 
stillness of death pervaded the apartment. She could dis- 
tinctly hear the quick beatings of her heart, and her robe 
fluttered as visibly over its palpitations as the azure curtains 
rustling in the soft breath of night. 

'' Why do I linger here ?" said she, looking out into the 
calm majesty and loveliness of a cloudless evening. "I will 
not remain, as if seeking an interview with one whose fascina- 
tions, I feel, I never could resist. Where there is mystery, 
there is always danger. I thank my guardian angel for whis- 
pering this caution to my heart." 

At this moment, something flew like a light-winged bird by 
her cheek, and fell rustling at her feet. It was something 
enveloped in a soft, white tissue. She opened it and beheld 
her own faded rose -, while she gazed with mingled shame and 
delight on the sweet but wilted token, the soft sound of enter- 
ing footsteps met her ear, and the tall, black-masked stranger 
stood before her. 

She no longer feared him. She even welcomed his approach 
with a strange rapture, that sent the warm blood bounding 
through her veins and eddying in her cheeks. He sat down 
by her side, and his low, sweet, mellow voice uttered words of 
wondrous fascination. She listened like one entranced, forget- 
ting the fate of Zelica and the doom of Leonora, Indeed, had she 
known that the same dark destiny awaited her, she could not 
have broken the spell that enthralled her. For hours he lin- 
gered at her side, while his eyes, like stars shining through 


a midniglit cloud, were beaming with mysterious spendour upon 
her brow. Her will bowed before his mighty will, and, ere 
she was aware of the act, she had sealed her heart's warrant 
for life or death. She had consented -to follow him to the altar, 
and unveil with her rash and daring hand the brow now covered 
with so. dark an eclipse. 

"You love me,^^ cried the stranger, while his veice trembled 
with ecstasy ', " you love me, with that pure, spiritual love, 
which, born on earth, is but a type of an immortal wedlock. 
You will love me still, whatever be the features this gloomy 
mask conceals. Be they those/ of a fiend, yau will not love 
me less. Be they those of an angel, you will not love me 

And Blanche bowed her fair head on his shoulder, and was 
constrained to utter — 

"Angel or fiend, I must love thee still.'' 

" To-morrow, then, at this hour, I shall come and claim 
thee for my bride. Nay, speak not of delay, for my destiny 
must be fulfilled. You shall know when I am near, but not 
by this faded token. The pledge of my coming shall .breathe 
of life, and joy, and hope." 

Pressing her hand gracefully to his heart, he disappeared, 
while Blanche trembled and wept at the remembrance of the 
vow she had plighted. Released from the magic of his pre- 
sence, she saw her rashness, her madness and infatuation, in 
their true light. She felt she was rushing blindfold to 
the verge of perdition. She was terrified at the intensity of 
her emotions. Better were it for her heart to remain in the 
torpor over which it had been mourning, than awake to a sense 
of life so keen as almost to amount to agony. She was like 
the blind, suddenly restored to sight, with a flood of noonday 
glory pouring on the lately darkened vision. She was faint- 
ing from excess of light. 

Softly she ascended to her chamber, so as not to arouse the 
sleeping Elsie, whose remarks she now dreaded to hear ; but 
so light were her slumbers, they vanished at the soft rustle of 
Blanche's muslin robe. 

" I saw him," she cried, dispersing the mist of sleep from 
her eyelids ; " I saw him from the window as he entered, and 
I have been praying the blessed Virgin ever since to shield you 
from harm." 

" You must have been praying in your sleeps then," said 


" 0, dear mistress, do not see him again. You will find he 
is some murderer, who has a brand on his forehead" 

^' Stop, Elsie," cried the shuddering Blanche. " It is 
slander. I will not permit it." 

'^ And, besides," continued the persevering girl, " I dare 
say the barbarians have cut off his nose and cropped his ears 
into the bargain. People never hide their beauty under a 

"Elsie, leave my room, if you cannot be silent," said 
Blanche, with rising courage. 

Elsie obeyed her, but muttered something about sulphur 
"and hoofs, as she closed the door behind her. 

" How very impertinent Elsie is grovring 1" cried Blanche, 
throwing herself weeping upon the bed. "But how can I 
expect to retain the respect of a maid, when I have forfeited 
my own self-esteem ? Alas ! what if her surmises be true ! 
What if the brand of indelible disgrace be stamped upon that 
brow where I have imagined more than mortal beauty dwells ! 
What if, instead of a nose which Phidias might have taken as 
a model for one of the gods of Grreece, there should be only a 
frightful cavity, a horrible disfigurement !" 

Recoiling at the awful picture Elsie's fertile imagination had 
conjured, she spread her hands before her face to shut out a 
vision so appalling. It was strange — in his presence she had 
a perfect conviction that his mask concealed the face of an 
angel, while in his absence the conviction faded, and the most 
terrific fancies usurped its place ! 

" 0, that I could recall my fatal pledge !" she cried to 
herself, as she tossed upon her restless couch. " But it is 
given, and be it for weal or woe, I must abide by the result." 

The next evening, Mrs. Channing, the kind, maternal 
friend, whom Blanche had so dearly loved, remained by her, 
"as if drawn towards her by some unusual attraction. Never 
had she been so tender, so affectionate. Blanche gazed upon 
her with bitter self-reproach, thinking how ill she was about 
to requite her guardian cares. She longed to throw her arms 
around her neck, reveal her secret, and pray her to save her 
from the delusions of her own heart. 

" I fear you are not well, my sweet child," said the lady, 
in soothing accents. " Indeed, I have noticed, all day, that 
you have looked feverish and ill. Do not sit in the night air, 
in that thin dress, too. • Why, my dear, you are dressed like 
a bride. I did not know that you were going abroad to- 


night. I fear this life of pleasure will wilt the roses of your 

'^ I have promised to go/' she said, avoiding the glance of 
her friend, '' and I cannot break my word. But it is the kst 
time — indeed, it is the last.^' 

While she was speaking a white rose-bud fell at her feet. 

''See,'' said Mrs. Channing, smiling, ''see what the breeze 
has blown to you. It must be a token of happiness — -fit em- 
blem of your beauty and innocence." 

f ' Do you think it a token of happiness ?" cried Blanche, 
eagerly gathering up the well-known signal. " Thank you for 
the words. I go with a lighter heart. Farewell, kindest and 
best of friends. Heaven bless you for ever and ever." 

Pressing her quivering lips on the placid forehead she might 
never again behold, she glided from the' room. She dreaded 
meeting Elsie, but was compelled to go to her chamber for h^r 
mantle and veil, and there she encountered her faithful and 
remonstrating friend. When Blanche, with a face as pale as 
marble, threw her mantle over her shoulders, and cast a light 
veil over her golden locks, Elsie seemed to divine her purpose^ 
and entreated her to remain. 

" 0, it is like a bride you are dressed," she cried, " with 
those pearls on your neck and arras, and that beautiful white 
rose-bud on your bosom." 

Blanche could not leave her faithful attendant without some 
memorial of her love. Opening her jewel case, she took out 
a costly necklace and ring. 

" Take these," she said, " as a memento of my attachment, 
and as a reward' for your fidelity. Betray me not, on your 
soul's life, and may the blessed Virgin you worship be propi- 
tious to you as you are true to me." 

Elsie suffered the jewels to fall from her hand, and casting 
herself at the feet of Blanche, she wrapped her arms about her 
knees, and implored her, with tears and sobs^ not to go with 
that dreadful man. 

" Release me," cried Blanche, ready to faint with conflicting 
emotions. " Delay me not a moment longer." Then snatch- 
ing her mantle from her grasp, and leaving her prostrate and 
weeping on the floor, she flew down stairs, through the open 
door, and found herself in the arms of that dark and nameless 
being, to whom she was about to confide herself for ever. He 
bore her, almost fainting, into a carriage that was waiting at 
the gate, and the horses^ black as nighty started oft" at a furious 


speed. They left the crowded city far behind them, and rode 
out into the open fields, where the moonbeams, unobstructed 
by high granite walls, shone resplendently on her pallid face 
and the polished surface of his enamel mask. 

"Whither are you bearing me V she faintly asked, as the 
small pebbles flashed fire beneath the horses' flying hoofs. 

" To a second Eden, where love immortal blooms,'' he an- 
swered, folding her close to his heart. Forward they went, 
with the same bewildering speed. The trees swept by them, 
like dark-green spirits in a rushing dance. Tall monuments, 
gleaming white and ghostly, ghastly and cold, shot swiftly by 
them in the quivering moonshine. 

" ! whither are you bearing me ?" again she asked, almost 
expecting him to answer : 

" See there, see here, the moon shines clear — 
Hurrah, how swiftly speeds the dead ?" 

'' Tarn bearing you to the gate of Heaven,^' he replied ; " for 
surely the house of Grod is such. Far away in the deep woods 
there is a Gothic church, where a holy priest is waiting to 
crown with his blessing the purest, deepest love that ever 
bound two trusting hearts in one.^' 

" 0, mine is all the trust !" she cried, " and if I be deceived, 
mine will be all the woe." 

" As never woman thus loved and trusted,'^ he passionately 
exclaimed, "so never woman was so supremely blest as thou, 
my soul's beloved, shalt be I" 

With soothing words and tender protestations and impas- 
sioned vows he sustained her spirits, and beguiled the length 
of their moonlight journey. At last they beheld the white 
walls of the sacred edifice glimmering through the dark, silver- 
edged foliage of the trees that embosomed it. The illuminated 
arches of the lofty windows told that his words were true, and 
that the holy father there awaited for the bridegroom and the 

" Courage, my beloved," he cried, supporting her steps into 
the vestibule, " your sublime confidence shall soon be rewarded. 
If it wearies, even now, I will restore you to the friends you 
have cjuitted for the stranger's love. But if you still cling to 
me with undoubting faith and triumphant afi"ection, come, and 
the powers of earth cannot rend us asunder." 
. Blanche placed her cold hand in his. Throwing his arm 


arouud her, he led her towards the illuminated altar, where, 
clothed in his white robes, with the crucifix s-uspended on his 
breast, the man of Grod was standing. Blanche sank upon her 
knees and bowed her head, till it touched the marble steps of 
the altar. At this moment, as if touched by invisible hands, 
the deep notes of the organ swelled grandly and solemnly on 
the ear. They gradually rose to the full altitude of the' lofty 
dome, when, rolling along the arch, gathering volume as they 
rolled, they burst over the altar in a thunder-peal of melody, 
then murmured softly away, only to swell again in the same 
magnificent epithalamium. The illuminated church, the holy 
priest, the consecrated altar, and the grand and solemn music, 
filled the soul of Blanche with devout enthusiasm. Her con- 
fidence in her mysterious bridegroom deepened and strength- 
ened. He knelt at her side, with her throbbing hand clasped 
in his. The last notes of the organ reverberated on the ear, 
and the priest commenced the solemn ceremony. So intense 
was her agitation, that she did not even hear the name of the 
unknown being — that name that was to be henceforth hep own. 
She did not know when the rite was ended, but continued with 
her head bowed and her loosened hair sweeping the consecrated 

" And now, my beloved," said the divine voice that had 
with its first accent captivated her soul, " the hour is come 
which releases me from the vow breathed in the presence of 
this man of God. Bemove the mask, and behold the features 
which, whatever form they bear, are beaming with immortal 
love for thee.'' 

Slowly and tremblingly Blanche raised her head, and turned 
towards him, as he knelt on the lower steps of the altar, and 
bent till his sable locks waved against her snowy dress. 

And now the moment was arrived to which she had looked 
forward with such wild curiosity, with such unutterable hope 
and dread. Her hand refused to obey the impulse of her pant- 
ing heart. It fell almost lifeless on his shoulder, and a thick 
mist darkened her sight. ' 

" Fear not, my daughter," said the deep voice of the priest. 

'' Put 3^our trust in Heaven, and shrink not from the destiny 

fchou hast chosen, whatever it may be. , As faith is the most 

ublime of Christian virtues, so it is the most glorious proof of 


These words issuing from the sacerdotal lips, that had so 
lately blessed her as a bride, gave her a momentary strength. 


Her fingers passed witli lingering toucli througli the luxuriant 
locks that waved over the ribbon which confined the mask. 
As she unloosed the knot and he gradually began to raise his 
bending head, before she had caught one glimpse of those 
mysterious features, overcome by the weight of concentrated 
emotions, she fell lifeless on his bosom. 

When she recovered her senses, she found herself lying 
quietly on the carpet of her boudoir, by the side of her over- 
turned harp, whose strings were yet vibrating from the sudden 
fall. Elsie was standing over her with a lamp in her hand, in 
convulsions of laughter. 

^' I would not be laughing if you were hurt,'^ she cried, 
setting down her lamp and assisting the prostrate beauty, as 
well as hev shaking muscles would allow, to resume an upright 
position. '^ You have had a pleasant nap of it, leaning against 
your harp. It tumbled before I could catch you, or you would 
not be lying here.^^ 

"0 !'^ cried Blanche, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, ^^if I 
had only had one glimpse of his face V 



*' Ob, seldom have we heard a tale, 
So sad, so tender, yet so true." ■ 

The incidents we are about to relate are true, but feelings 
of delicacy induce us to throw a veil around them, by substitu- 
ting fictitious names. This is all the fiction connected with 
the sketch. 

Emma and Lelia Wayne were two lovely, fair-haired, blue- 
eyed girls, just blooming into womanhood. They seemed the 
favourites of nature and of fortune. Their father, a wealthy 
merchant, was one of the most affectionate and indulgent 
parents in the world. He was proud of his fair, sweet-faced 
daughters, and they were proud of him. He was a remark- 
-ably handsome man, and the generous qualities of his soul 
diffused their glow and lustre over his countenance. Their 
mother was an invalid, and constantly confined to her room, 
but her gentleness and piety made her chamber seem nearer 
Heaven, than any other apartment in the house. Wherever 
they moved, these two young girls breathed an atmosphere of 
love, and difi"used it around them as they moved. 

Emma, the eldest, had a brighter eye and a deeper bloom 
than her sister. Her smile was more joyous, her step more 
elastic, and her voice had a gayer tone, Lelia had one of 
those haunting countenances which once seen is remembered 
for ever, with a thrill of sadness, too. It is said that every 



face is either a history or a prophecy. Lelia's was a prophecy. 
She had large, languishing, mournful, loving, melting eyes, 
that looked up wistfully through long lashes, darker than her 
hair, then suddenly drooped, as if fearful they revealed too 
much of what was passing in her heart. Her mouth was very 
lovely, but a shade of melancholy hovered round its roses. A 
redundance of flaxen hair, always simply and -gracefully ar- 
ranged, softened the outline of \iev painfully interesting face. 
The expression may seem strange, but no one could look upon 
Lelia without feeling that she was born to love and to suffer 
too deeply. As yet her capacities for love and suffering were 
undeveloped, and while so tenderly shielded by parental care, 
it seemed impossible for sorrow or disappointment to approach 
with blighting influence. 

Mr. Wayne did not wish or expect to keep his daughters 
from marriage, but he said he could not be parted from them. 
Their mother's health was too delicate to bear the shock of 
separation. Whoever should win the treasure of their affec- 
tions must consent to live near the shadow of the paternal roof. 
It was not long before Emma married a promising young law- 
yer, and was established in an elegant mansion contiguous to 
her home. She was happy, and her parents were happy in 
this union, and Lelia tried to be happy, too, but she felt as if 
a stranger had come between her and the bosom companion of 
her childhood and youth. Her sister could never be to her 
what she was before, and she sighed at the thought that Emma 
loved another better than herself. 

Just at this time she became acquainted with a young and 
gallant officer, with laurels gathered in the " land of flowers,'^ 
blooming on his youthful brow. There was a grace, a gal- 
lantry, a chivalry in his manners that charmed the imagination 
of the romantic and tender Lelia. We will call him Clifford, 
not wishing to make use of his real name. He was returning 
to his post on the frontiers, where, with numbers of his brave 
countrymen, he was engaged in defending the borders from the 
depredations of the red man — dangerous and protracted war- 
fare ! 

Young Clifford conceived for Lelia Wayne one of those deep 
and impassioned attachments which once in a while break in 
on the dull routine of everyday life. The military character 
is invested with a peculiar charm. The military gentleman is 
generally graced with peculiarly attractive manners. Lelia 
yielded to their seductive influence. Her large, melancholy 


blue eyes were now illuminated with the light of love. It was 
like the moonbeams shining on the mist of the valley, and trans- 
forming it to a silvery glory, 

Clifford pressed his suit with characteristic ardour. With 
the frankness of a soldier, he declared his sentiments to Mr. 
Wayne, and asked him for his daughter, assuring him that his 
love was returned, and that Lelia had authorized him to entreat 
his sanction to their immediate union. Mr. Wayne turned 
pale as he listened. He liked, he admired the young man, 
but he could not consent that his daughter should leave him 
for the dark and stormy scenes to which his duty called him 
to return. No ! it was impossible. It would kill her mother 
— it would make himself unspeakably wretched. It must not 
be. Lelia had been nurtured in the lap of luxury. She had 
never known privation or care. She was too delicate a flower 
to bloom in the camp, too frail to be exposed to the unspeak- 
able horrors of Indian warfare. With tenderness and feeling, 
yet firmness and decision, he told the young man he 7iever, 
never could consent to their union, and begged him, as he 
valued the happiness of Lelia, never to seek her presence 
again. He demanded the sacrifice of him, but Clifford would 
not promise what he felt he had not the power to perform. 
He could not go without seeing Lelia once more — and that 
meeting sealed her destiny. Borne down by the weight of 
her love and sorrow, she rashly consented to a clandestine 
union. At the house of a mutual friend, who imprudently 
promised secrecy and aid, the ill-starred marriage was con- 
summated, which made the loving and affectionate Lelia an 
alien from her father's roof. Mr. Wayne, justly incensed, re- 
fused to see his disobedient child, but the invalid mother 
yearned over her lost darling. In her husband's absence, she 
sent for her daughter, who wept in agony on her bosom, when 
she saw how much her desertion had added to the ravages of 
disease, on that pale and gentle face. Mrs. Wayne forgave 
and blessed her, committed her to the care and mercy of her 
Heavenly Father, and suffered her to depart. Never more 
was she to behold that fair, young, pensive countenance. The 
prophecy written on her brow was about to be fulfilled. 

The parting with her sister was another bitter trial. She 
began to realize the strength of the ties she was sundering. 
She understood for the first time the metaphor of the bleeding 
heart. Could she but see her father, only see him, herself 
unseen^ she thought she would feel comparatively happy, and 


she did see him thus. But instead of feeling happier, her 
anguish was increased by her remorse. He looked so pale, so 
sad, so stern — looked as if he could never smile again. What 
an ungrateful return she had made for his tender, his guardian 
cares ! She had forsaken him for the stranger of a day. She 
had left the guide of her youth. Yet even in the midst of her 
sorrow and remorse, she exulted in the mighty sacrifice she was 
making on the altar of love. It was for Clifford she was en- 
during a father's just resentment — it was for Clifford she was 
leaving a loving mother and tender sister — home, fortune, 
friends — and she loved him the dearer for the costly price she 
paid for his love. 

It was the first time she had ever been a traveller. Born 
amid the magnificent scenery of the West, she had a vivid per- 
ception of the beautiful and the sublime. At first she was 
incapable of doing anything but look back, through blinding 
tears, on her native city and its picturesque surroundings, as 
the boat glided down the noble river, on whose glassy waves 
she had looked down so many years, little dreaming she would 
float over its azure bosom a discarded daughter, a clandestine 
bride. For a time she could think only of all she was resign- 
ing, but youthful feelings are transilient, and she soon gave 
herself up to the joy of the present moment, while hope spanned 
with its arc-en-ciel the clouds of the future. Arrived at her 
new home, the charm of novelty threw an illusion over every 
object. The fort which her husband commanded, had a 
sublime aspect in her eyes, with the star-bangled banner float- 
ing from its walls. The martial music, how inspiring it was ! 
The soldiers, with their nieasured tread and respectful bearing, 
she loved to gaze upon, especially when they gave the graceful 
military salute to her gallant husband. She loved the morn- 
ing reveille and the evening serenade, and in her enthusiasm, 
thought she never could grow weary of a military life. 

She saw nothing of the wild Indians who infested the 
borders, and, grown fearless by unmolested tranquillity, en- 
treated her husband to let her roam in the woods for the wild 
flowers, which had given name to the luxurious region in 
which she now dwelt. This, however, he constantly refused, 
never allowing her to go beyond the limits of the fort, unpro- 
tected by his presence. 

It was strange to see this young and lovely female in a rude 
fort, surrounded by officers and soldiers, and all the rough 
paraphernalia of war. She moved amid the groups like an 


angel, sent to minister to their ruder natures, and had danger 
threatened her, not a man but would have died in her defence. 
Alas ! alas ! that danger was so near ! 

One morning, preparations were making to send a quantity 
of ammunition to another fort. Lieutenant Willard, a very 
young and interesting ofl&cer, commanded the expedition. About 
thirty soldiers were to escort him. 

The morning was clear and resplendent, the air bland and 
elastic, receiving tone from the sea-born breezes that were 
wafted from the coast. Lelia stood on the ramparts, her cheeks 
glowing with unusual excitement. 

^' Let me go,^' cried she to her husband, whose arm was linked 
with hers. '^ Let us go on horseback and accompany them. 
It is such a charming morning." 

'^ I cannot go," he answered. ^^ I am obliged to remain at 
the fort. I wish I could, for your sake, my Lelia. You must 
weary of your confined and lonely life." 

" Oh, no !" she eagerly replied. ^' I never should be 
weary where you are. It was a childish wish. It is past 

The young lieutenant approached, with his plumed hat in 
his hand, and addressed his commander — 

'^ Let me escort your wife," said he. ^^ I shall be proud of 
the honour, and will insure her safe return." 

" Shall it be so, Lelia ?" said Clifford, looking into her now 
animated blue eyes, and reading her answer there. " Go, then, 
and make ready with all possible haste, for the morning hours 
are wasting." 

Lelia flew away with the joyous step of youth, while Clifford 
commanded his riding horse to be caparisoned and brought 
near. Lelia soon returned in a riding costume, whose dark 
blue colour set off to peculiar advantage her blonde complexion 
and fair hair. A small black hat, with black, drooping feathers, 
was placed carelessly on her head, and heightened by contrast 
her transcendent fairness and roseate bloom. Never had the 
dark eye of Clifford rested on her so lovingly, so admiringly, 
as it did after placing her on the back of the spirited animal, 
adjusting the stirrups and placing the bridle in her slender 
hand, which he pressed, ere he relinquished it, with all a 
lover's ardour. 

^^ Lieutenant," said he, before giving the signal for their 
departure, " remember you have a precious charge committed 
to your care — guard it with all a soldier's vigilance," 


" I will guard it witK my life/' said tlie young soldier, with 
a bright blush and a beaming smile, little dreaming that he 
-was uttering the words of prophecy. 

Captain Clifford stood watching the party as long as it was 
in sight. Lelia was mounted on a milk-white horse, Lieuten- 
ant Willard on a coal-black one. Again and again Lelia looked 
back, kissing her hand to her husband and gayly smiling. 
When he could no longer catch a glimpse of her black plumes 
waving in the breeze of morn, he turned away with a sigh. 

" Should any evil befall her," thought he, " I never 
should forgive myself for suffering her to depart. But impos- 
sible — the Indians are driven from this vicinity, and she is 
nobly guarded.'' 

In tbe mean time, Lelia went on her way rejoicing, thought- 
less of danger, and exhilarated by exercise. The young lieu- 
tenant charmed her by dwelling on her husband's jDraises, which 
were music to her ear. Then he talked to her of his mother 
and sisters, till her eyes overflowed at the remembrance of her 

All at once, young Willard drew his horse nearer to hers, 
and bent his ear in a listening attitude. They were passing a 
dense thicket ; and he heard a kind of hissing sound, which 
was immediately followed by a fierce, savage whoop. 

Lelia, struck with deadly fainting, threw her arms round 
the horse's neck, and buried her face in the flowing mane. 
Young Willard sprang to the ground with the speed of light- 
ning, and, taking Lelia from the saddle, tried to place her in 
the ammunition wagon, where she could be sheltered from the 
ambushed fire of the Indians, who were now tattling their shot 
from the thicket. She had fainted from terror, and lay a help- 
less weight in his arms. Before he could reach the wagon, 
she received a death-wound in her bosom, and he fell wounded 
and gasping by her side. 

The soldiers, in the mean time, discharged a volley on the 
sheltered savages, which probably sent them to a deeper covert 3 
for they ceased their firing, leaving behind two youthful vic- 
tims to their indiscriminate vengeance. Thank Heaven that, 
intimidated by the fierce defence of the soldiers, they had fled 
without daring to approach with the terrible scalping-knife ! 
The remains of the lovely Lelia were spared this awful desecra- 
tion. She was insensible when she received the death-wound, 
and passed uncpnsciously the shadowy confines of the spirit 
world. She suffered all the agonies of death when the horrible 


yell first burst upon her ear. In that moment, father, mother, 
sister, native home, dearly-loved, remembered scenes, all rose 
before her with lifelike vividness; then her husband, standing 
on the ramparts, waving his hand in token of adieu, with a 
beaming smile ; then the dreadful conviction that it was the 
last glimpse of life and love that would ever be hers ; then — 
all was darkness. 

The horses which had borne Lelia and Willard, dispossessed 
of their riders, rushed back to the fort. Clifford read a tale 
of horror in their empty saddles and loose, flowing bridles. 
Mounting one, he rode with the speed of an eagle to the fatal 
spot. The unfortunate Willard still lived, though life was fast 
ebbing away. He was supported in the arms of the soldiers, 
who gazed alternately on his pale and altering features, and 
the beauteous body reclining near. What a spectacle for a 
young and adoring husband ! There she lay — his fair young 
bride — whom he had lured from her happy home only to be 
the victim of the red man's wrath. No mark of violence was 
visible; no blood oozed from the wound, which closed as soon 
as it was made. Her hat had fallen from her head, and lay, 
with broken feathers, on the ground. Her long, fair hair, 
loosened and flowing, streamed around her in bands of paly 
gold, and glistened with mournful lustre on her dark riding- 
dress. The glow of life still lingered on her cheek ; but her 
eyes, — those large, loving, pensive blue eyes, — now half-closed, 
were fixed and glassy. 

^' Captain,^^ murmured the expiring lieutenant, ^^ I would 
die happy, could I have saved your wife. Oh, my captain, 
it is you who die I" 

Clifi"ord, who stood as if transfixed, gazing on his slaughtered 
wife, and dying friend, here uttered a loud and bitter cry, and 
threw himself by the side of her whom he would have died to 
ransom from death. He folded his arms around her, and 
covered her cold lips and cheeks with kisses such as '^ joy ne'er 
knew,''' He called upon her, by every fond and endearing 
name, to look at him, to speak, and tell him that she lived. 
In the midst of his frantic adjurations, the soul of the brave 
young Willard passed into the presence of its Grod. Oh ! for 
a mother's bosom, on which he could have pillowed his faint- 
ing head ! Oh ! for a sister's arms, to support his sinking 
frame ! But the soldier's death-pillow is the cold ground, and 
his last sigh is breathed up to the heavens bending above him. 
It is well 


We will not attempt to describe the anguish of the unhappy 
Clifford. For a time, it threatened to unthrone his reason, 
heightened as it was by the bitterest remorse. A dreadful 
task awaited him : — to write to her parents and inform them 
of the mournful tragedy. This being done, he felt as the 
criminal does while the doom he dreads is impending over 
him. He expected to be looked upon in the light of a mur- 
derer; for, had it not been for him, Lelia might still be warm 
with life, and youth, and joy. With trembling hands he broke 
the letter which came in reply to his, communicating the fatal 
tidings. It contained no word of reproach, no language of 
bitterness. It entreated him to come back, bearing with him 
all that was left of the ill-fated Lelia; to come and take a 
son's place in their darkened home and sorrowing hearts. 

Captain Clifford obtained a furlough, and fulfilled the wishes 
of the mourning parents. It was a sad meeting; but recon- 
ciliation, born of sorrow, made it hallowed. 

Embalmed by the tears of her young companions, the re- 
mains of the murdered Lelia were deposited in her native 
soil. Remembrance of her fault was lost in pity for her un- 
timely doom. They could not speak harshly of one who had 
expiated her disobedience by her life. 

" Had I only forgiven her I" was the burden of the father's 
heart. " Oh ! had I only forgiven !" 

Yes ! fallible and erring beings that we are, let us forgive, 
as we pray to be forgiven by our Father in heaven. Let not 
pardon be delayed till the heart it would have gladdened is 
cold beneath the clods of the valley. The relenting voice can- 
not penetrate the deep, dark abyss of the grave. No one ever 
mourned for having followed the example of Him who forgave 
even his murderers with his expiring breath; but how many 
have sorrowed, when too late, over the inexorable will and the 
severe, though just decree ! 

Let the young maiden who perchance may read this sad but 
true history tremble at the consequences of filial disobedience. 
God, sooner or later, avenges the violation of his sacred laws. 
She may not, like Lelia, perish by the death-shot of the Indian, 
but she may be reserved for a fate more mournful still, — the 
slow wasting away of the heart, under the blighting influence 
of unkindness or perfidy. As she has forsaken her parents, 
she may be herself forsaken and betrayed. Lelia was sweet, 
lovely, gentle, and guileless ; but she yielded to the dictates of 


passion, and exposed herself to the terrible doom we have 

Yes, she was indeed lovely. " Never shall we forget the soft, 
beseeching, pensive expression of her prophetic eyes, the tones 
of her sweet, plaintive voice. We are reminded of the words 
of Ossian : " Sweet is the memory of departed friends. Like 
the mellow rays of the setting sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, 
on the soul." 




The Magnolia is the pride of the South. Its magnificent 
white blossoms shine like stars in the midst of the deep green 
woods, — their fragrance embalms the whole atmosphere where 
they bloom, and the deep perennial verdure of the leaves gives 
beauty and richness to the wintry landscape. But it was not 
these splendid attributes that suggested the name given to the 
following pages. Its waxen petals serve as tablets, on which 
friend may transmit to friend some glowing thought, which 
might otherwise fade away, without leaving any record of its 
existence. In wandering through the woods in the season of 
flowers, these tablets can always be obtained, and a splinter 
torn from the bark will serve as a stylus, with which the senti- 
ments of love and friendship may be easily traced. 

The name seemed appropriate for these leaflets of the heart, 
which we here present in a garland to the reader. Though 
the growth of a southern soil, may they bloom also in a north- 
ern clime. 

Would that we had the power to encircle with flowery bonds 
the North and the South, and draw them together in sweeter, 
closer union ! 

C. L. II. 

Columbus, May 1st, 1853. 




QuiNCT, Fla., May 15, 1852. 
In looking abroad at this moment, the eye meets the two 
most beautiful colours in nature, green and blue — the green 
of the earth, and the blue of the sky. The horizon presents a 
uniform, scarcely undulating line, broken by the lofty top 
boughs of the forest trees, or the sharp roof of an occasional 
dwelling-house. But nearer than the horizon's edge, there is 
a grove of young oaks, so thick, so green, so cool and refresh- 
ing, we have no doubt the Dryads hold many a moonlight 
revel in its virgin shades. The Fairies, too, flit about on the 
dewy sward, at their nightly rendezvous, after wandering 

"Over Mil, over dale, 
Thorough bush, thorough brier — 
*-- Over park, over pale, 

Thorough flood, thorough fire." 

The other evening, and a true fairy evening it was, all 
moonlight and dew, as we sat listening to the sweet duet, com- 
mencing with 

"I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, 
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grow," 

and as we looked out into the deep shades of this grove, all 
sprinkled with silver as it was, the spell of the Midsummer 
Night's Dream was upon us, and we could see Titania sleeping 
there, in all her elfin beauty, while cruel and mischievous 
Oberon squeezed on the fringed curtains of her eyes, the juice 
of the milk-white flower, made purple by love's wound, yclept 
by young; maidens, Love in idleness, 

" n . (193) 


How beautiful is the poetry whicli peoples nature with the 
glorious creations of imagination ! What a charm has it given 
to the lonely wood, the silent rock, and the voiceless stream ! 
The poetry of mythology, too, how exquisite is it! What 
beauty and interest it imparts to inanimate objects ! The im- 
prisoned Dryad moans amid the leafy boughs. The Naiad 
murmurs in the gurgling fountain. In the plaintive notes of 
Echo, we hear the accents of the love-lorn nymph, the victim 
of the self-adoring Narcissus ; and in the beautiful wind-flower, 
born of the blood of Adonis, we read the history of the ena- 
moured Venus, and the beautiful, but scornful, hunter youth. 

Take away all poetical, mythological, and historical associa- 
tions from nature, and it becomes a body without a soul — " all 
coldly sweet, all deadly fair.^^ Even the child, untaught in 
mystic lore, finds a charm in inanimate nature, independent of 
its own loveliness. The soft wind-breath that lingers on its 
cheek reminds it of a mother's kiss ; the gentle murmur of 
the violet, of the music of her voice ; the summer rain-drops, 
of her tears ; the autumn gusts, of her solemn chidings. 

Take away all Scriptural associations from Nature — what a 
blank is left I Yea, what grandeur — yea, what glory are an- 
nihilated ! 

The hillsj what are they? Piles of granite and rough 
masses of rock and soil — inequalities on the surface of the 
broad earth. Let mythology invest them with its poetic charm : 
They become the dwelling-places of the heathen divinities, the 
thrones of Olympian gods and goddesses, the fabled hierarchy 
of G-reece and Rome. Let Christianity come forward, and we 
feel an influence more holy than poetry, more mighty than 
superstition. God himself is enthroned on the mountains, in 
" light inaccessible and full of glory.'' We see Him in the 
thunders and lightnings and thick smoke of Sinai ; in the flow- 
ing blood and darkened summit of Mount Calvary, Wherever 
the sacred mountains rise, whether baptized by water, fire, or 
blood, they are the thrones of invisible or incarnate Deity, and 
we think of them as magnificent temples, typical of those 
temples not made with hands, " eternal in the heavens." So 
it is with the waters. The rivers, what are they ? The rains 
descend — they fall on the hill-tops — they penetrate the fissures 
of the earth, wind through its subterranean cavities, gush out 
through rocky portals, and, meeting congenial springs, swell 
into volume, and roll on through guarding shores — roll on to 
sea or ocean^ a tributary formed of thousand tributaries. 


Mjtliology gives life to this cold element. The virgin, Are- 
thusa, animates the gliding fountain — the divine Alpheus 
moves to love the hearts of the river nymphs, who gaze uj)on 
his beauty. The sea-green mantle of Neptune floats over the 
bosom of ocean — his fiery steeds flake with foam its azure 
surface. How beautiful, how sublime are these associations ! 
Yet how infinitely short in beauty and sublimity are they, of 
those awakened by the bards of the Bible ! The prophets 
stand on the margin of Jordan. On the opposite bank smiles 
the promised land. One sweep of Elijah's mantle, and the 
waters flow back, as at the mandate of a God. The Israelites 
tremble on the shores of the Red Sea. They fly from Pharaoh's 
royal hosts. At the bidding of a God, the waves rise up in 
crystal walls, making a path for the chosen children of the 
Most High. We are told that the Almighty holds the seas 
in the hollow of his hand, that the mountains flow down at 
His presence, that the deep lifts up its hands on high, that the 
perpetual hills do bow. 

Surely this is a suggestive grove. We had promised you a 
sketch from this place ; but after saying it is beautiful, rural, 
sweet and tranquil, we feel as if we had said all that it becomes 
us to utter, at this early period of our sojourn in it. We have 
tried to collect some legendary lore to transmit to you, but in 
vain. We are told of some hoary seer, who could give us 
most thrilling accounts of Indian life and warfare, but alas ! 
he is far from us, and we can derive no benefit from his storied 

There are the ruins of an old Spanish fort, about ten miles 
from here, that must be interesting, from their antiquity — so 
moss-grown are they, so old. A gentleman, who was describ- 
ing them, and who visited the spot about nine years since, 
says, that then it had been so long deserted that large trees 
were growing up in the midst of the four roads which diverged 
from the old fort. There is said to be a still more interesting 
ruin near Tallahassee. If we should chance to visit it, we will 
endeavour to enrich ourselves with the traditionary gems which 
adorn the place. There is a gentleman residing there, who is 
said to be a living Indian Encyclopedia, if we may call him 
so. A son of the forest, whose raven locks were bleached by 
the sun and wind of one hundred and forty years, told him 
all he knew of his fast vanishing race. Would it not be worth 
a pilgrimage to beg some of these treasures, which may be 


buried with tlie possessor, give them the golden setting of 
imagination, and then exhibit them to the world ? 

Why is it that we admire light and shade, so much more 
than light without a shadow? Look at the shadow of the 
lattice-work thrown wide across the street. You can see the 
foliage of the trees playing among the checkers. Now and 
then, the figure of a pedestrian glides over the alternate bars 
of silver and ebony. Beyond, where all is brightness, it is not 
half so lovely. Is it not so with life ? The lights and shades 
of feeling checker the surface of the soul. Fancy flutters over 
it like the play of the wind-stirred foliage, and memory, like 
the gliding figure of the pedestrian, throws a long dark shadow, 
which we fain would keep from fading away. 

Did you ever read the Grerman story of the Man without a 
Shadow ? Tempted by an inexhaustible purse of gold, he sold 
his shadow to the Evil Spirit. What cared he for his shadow 
— that useless, haunting ghost of matter ? But the boys, when 
they saw him intercept the sunshine, yet leave no more shadow 
than a crystal, fled from him in terror. He walked in the 
moonlight, with the lady of his heart, and whispered soft 
words of love ; but when she saw on the wall, a loneli/ shadoio, 
while she felt the warm clasp of his hand, she turned from 
him in speechless horror. Even the mendicant, whose wants 
his gold relieved, shuddered at his unshadowed presence, and 
refused his unblest gifts. He would have given a kingdom — 
ten thousand kingdoms, were they his — to win back the haunt- 
ing shadow he had so thoughtlessly bartered. So it is with 
man : when he would utterly free himself from sorrow — the 
shadow of life — he is divorced from the sympathies of his 
kind, the fellowship of humanity. He walks alone, in the soli- 
tary glare of his destiny. Oh ! who would not prefer walking 
in shadow, side by side with friendship and love, to the lonely 
brilliancy of the Grerman student's lot ! 

We would escape from Death, the great shadow rolling 
behind the steps of humanity; yet what curse so fearful as 
that denounced upon the Wandering Jew — immortal roamer 
on Time's deserted shore — doomed to gaze upon the successive 
wrecks of joy and love — praying for the shadow that never 
falls on the burning sands of his existence ! 

No ! children of sunshine and shade, of joy and sorrow, of 
life and death — heirs of a two-fold being — let us avoid all 
unholy league with the Spirit of Darkness. Let us never dare 
to barter our divine birth-right, lest, like Esau^ we find we have 


only a miserable mess of pottage in exchange, while we expose 
ourselves to the retributions of Eternity. 

How strange it is, that the reflection of a slight curtain of 
woven wood-work, on the moon-lightecl road, should call up 
ideas like these ! Yet every object in nature may be made a 
round in the ladder, on which the angels of thought mount up 
to heaven. 

3Iorning. — How different an aspect everything wears by 
sunlight ! No more fairies ; no more deep, poetic musings. 
Reality reigns, and the gilding tints of imagination fade like 
the phantasmagoria of a dream. 

If you turn to the left, another grove greets the eye, luxuriant 
and beautiful, though less romantic than the one we have 
described. Man has appropriated it to the business of life. A 
handsome Court House, built of a kind of limestone, stands in 
the centre, and the green lawn is surrounded by a railing, once 
white, probably, but now looking rather dim and discoloured. 
The morning is excessively sultry. You would know it by 
looking at the horses tied along by the railing, under the cool 
spreading shade, lazily sweeping away the flies from their shin- 
ing sides with the brushes that nature has provided them 
with, and lifting up first one foot, then the other, to assist in 
the operation, sometimes they suddenly wrinkle their smooth 
skins, turning their heads simultaneously, to see the effect of 
their muscular construction. 

That building a little beyond, gleaming white through the 
trees, is the Methodist Church, and a little further, the Pres- 
byterian Church stands, in front of a green common, where 
the cattle love to browse in the shade. There are Episcopalian 
and Baptist Churches also — though, at present, the flocks seem 
scattered for want of shepherds. 

It cannot be said that there is any architectual magnificence 
here — though there are many handsome dwelling-houses, 
adorned with shrubbery, having beautiful flower gardens, in- 
dicative of the taste and refinement of the inmates. 

There is a large Academy, where the youth of both sexes 
are taught in distinct departments. They celebrated the com- 
ing of May by a large party, which, though unaccompanied 
by coronation rites, was undoubtedly not wanting in youthful 
hilarity. The association of childhood and youth with the sea- 
son of bloom and flowers is charming, and many a garland is 
twined at these sweet eras, which bloom when the blossoms 
of May are faded and gone. We remember some fair young 


faces blushing among the flowers, emblematical of the fleeting 
glow of youth, and we sigh to think that the dust of the grave 
has dimmed the brightness that seemed destined for perennial 

Oil ! if such hues of beauty shone 

For ever fadeless in our path — 
If never o'er the heaven's bright blue 

There floated darkening clouds of wrath — 
Our spirits would too fondly cling 

To this too fair, deluding earth ; 
The soul that flutters for the skies, 

Would sink regardless of its birth. 

And now, methinks you will say, "this is a paper filled with 
heterogeneous matter.'^ And so it is — we have called it a 
Magnolia leaf — on which we have traced the passing impres- 
sions of the moment. At first, it might seem like vanity, to 
borrow a name so exquisite and fair -, but who, that has seen 
these lovely blossoms, or who, after their surface has received 
even the most delicate touch, has marked the dingy brown 
stains which deepen on the petals, disfiguring their fairness, 
and rendering dim and illegible the characters traced upon 
them, but must read a lesson of lowliness and humility ? Soon, 
also, will the shade gather over these lines ; but if, while fad- 
ing, they give forth the faintest breath of the fragrance that 
gushes from every pore of the Magnolia petals, they ask no 
longer lease of life or fame. 

No. 11. 

QuiNCT, Fla., May 20, 1852. 

Old letters ! leaflets of memory ! Yes, they are indeed so. 
Did you ever sit down, on the eve of a journey, or a change of 
residence, and, untying packet after packet, prepare to consign 
them to the flames ? and, as you unfolded the papers one by 
one, have not words arrested your eye, so full of vitality, that 
it seemed they would writhe in agony when exposed to the 
wrath of the burning element ? 

A short time since we prepared for a similar holocaust, with 


a sad and self-upbraiding heart. We deemed the act a duty^ 
and yet it seemed little less than sacrilege. Seating ourselves 
by the side of an open trunk, overflowing -with the accumula- 
ting stream of written thought, we began to separate the chaff 
from the wheat, the wine from the lees, the gold from the 
dross. This appeared at first an easy task, but we were soon 
convinced of our error: as Dominie Samson stood on the 
steps of the library, holding in his hands the huge folios he 
was to dust and arrange ; forgetful of time or place, we bent 
over the trunk, absorbed, abstracted, while 

" The soul of otlier days came rushing in." 

Shall I write down some of the reminiscences awakened by 
this review ? Shall memory be the Magnolia tree, green and 
beautiful, and its tablets the blossom leaves, on which the hand 
)f affection has traced deep and abiding characters ? 

Here is a packet, superscribed in a fine, easy, yet decided 
hand, more than usually slanting, somewhat careless, as the 
undotted i's and uncrossed fs indicate. The downsweeping 
lines are all single; no folding back of the i/'s and g's; all 
straight like ^j's and q's. Time is too precious to allow of such 
superfluities. One flash of the mind — one dash of the pen — 
apd it is done. 

At sight of this handwriting, a fair-haired, blue-eyed figure 
appears, with joyous smile, and frank, sunshiny countenance. 
No one would dream that under this girlish, almost childish 
exterior, there resided a powerful intellect, a strong will, and 
indomitable energy of character. A thorough disregard of the 
airy graces of her sex — a lofty scorn of its foibles and faults — 
individualize and set her apart from the circle in which she 
dwells. She has a noble, self-sacrificing, generous spirit — a 
mind thirsting for knowledge — a soul glowing with enthusiasm, 
which no disappointments can chill, no difficulties repress. 
Here is an extract from one of her letters, written in a moment 
of haste and excitement : 

^^ I cannot help recurring to the feelings with which I wrote 
to you, when I last dated . It was then, when de- 
pressed as low as a human being can be, except by crime, that 
I wrote you a transcript of my heart. Did I complain ? Did 
I express want of faith ? If I did, I should now repent, for 
at this moment I feel that my origuial plans are all more than 
accomplished^ You sympathized with me then. Will you 


not do so now ? Learn from my experience that the darkest 
day may be the precursor of a glorious morn. I now feel that 
the night was necessary, in order that its tears might prepare 
the soul for the genial influences of a happier sun. There is 
a view of the subject of sufiering, whence springs the sweetest 
flowers of enjoyment. It is when we consider it as developing 
the soul's capacities of feeling. When we suffer deeply, we 
feel as if our souls' boundaries were enlarged; we begin to 
conceive of what is true ; that our spirits spread an infinite 
surface to the influence of the universe, and its' Creator. 
Hence comes a more realizing sense of that Creator's bound- 
lessness. • We look to His revealed will for more truth — more 
comfort — deeper sentiments — and we find it there. It almost 
seems a new revelation.'^ 

She sometimes spreads the wings of imagination, and rises 
into the regions of poetry and romance. She thus apostro- 
phizes a river, flowing through a lovely valley, consecrated by 
holy remembrances : 

a Thy river images 
The very piety I love. Those waves 
Which clear, and deep, and rapidly roll on, 
Protected from the glare of noonday sun 
And from the public gaze, by banks adorned 
With ti^ees itself has nourished into life. 
Those sparkling waves not on the eye obtrude, 
Of him who at a distance views. Yet who 
Can gaze upon the vale, nor know a stream 
Of living water flows there ? So fragrant, 
And so fresh, the landscape glows — and see 
The graceful drapery of silver, purple, 
Gold, and every other rainbow tint. 
That twilight and Aurora spread o'er all, 
Betrays the modest benefactor, source 
And presence too, of all this valley's 

And so she goes on, taking in the mountains and the vales, 
and the mists that float over them, and the friends, who 

" Made every dear scene of enchantment more dear." 

Here is another packet, written in a more delicate, careful, 
and measured manner. We can read the beatitudes here. 
One of the ministering spirits sent to bind up the wounds of 
the bleeding heart, and to pour upon them the oil and balm of 


consolation^ traced these pale, religious-looking characters. 
Yes ! they all have a Bible look, for they were all dictated by 
the same Holy Spirit that inspired the sacred Scriptures, and 
prepares the heart for their benign and purifying influence. 
The life of the writer has been one of self-sacrifice. Year 
after year she watched the waning health of a beloved mother, 
scattering the blossoms of filial aflPection over the pillow of 
disease, and making the passage to the tomb, a beautiful and 
love-lighted pathway. And soon the grave closed over this 
dearest object of her earthly cares. She has gone on her 
heavenly mission, among the sick and the sorrowing, relin- 
quishing social pleasures which no one was ever more formed 
to enjoy, whenever they interfered with the duties of friend- 
ship and humanity. Will it be considered a breach of confi- 
dence to extract a few sentiments from these letters, with 
which to enrich my own ? The world will never know whose 
unobtrusive worth has won this spontaneous tribute, and 
should the passing breeze waft this leaf over intervening space 
to her, she will forgive the transgression, for the sake of the 
love that causes it, 

^^ Yes, you would find that I was indeed as ready to enter 
into your joys and sorrows, as in those bright days when the 
world lay green and untrodden before us. You, without a 
thought of coming change — I, experienced more, but still 
leaning upon the little varying influences around for weal or 
woe. Your pathway has been more varied with the flowers 
and garlands of life, than mine, and though I have lived many 
more years, yet you have had many more thoughts than have 
passed through my mind. Circumstances have brought out 
worlds of interest in you, and you have found that the more 
you were taxed, the greater your resources showed them- 

The following remarks, written several years since, were a 
powerful stimulus to the mind they addressed. Shall we 
transcribe them ? 

"I wish you would write a novel, with taste, elegance, and 
wit, that shall show forth in the highest degree, the superiority 
of moral worth. Let your hero or heroine bring every feeling 
and thought into subjection, and let every power and oppor- 
tunity be improved to the greatest extent, from the grand 
Christian stimulus, and yet, let it not be called a religious 
novel. How well, in fancy, we can portray a sublime faith, 


guiding every thouglit, and yefc the interests and the refine- 
ments of polished life spreading over the whole^ as a halo, to 
give a softness to the dazzling light ! 

'^ With such a work, the spirit which wit and talent produce, 
may do a vast deal of good ; and if you find that your power 
is ready and your success encouraging, you must try what 
moral miracles you can work with your pen." 

" Ah I" you exclaim, " how much easier to dictate, than to 
efi'ect; how much easier to judge, than to create V 

Shall we commit such thoughts as these to the flames? 
Shall we destroy the record of faith and afl'ection, which have 
been incitements to action and encouragements to success?. 
JSTo! They are immortal, and cannot, but by annihilating, 
die. Should the fire apparently consume them, should the 
ashes be given to the four winds of heaven, they would reap- 
pear in some form of beauty and purity ; perchance the Mag- 
nolia's blossoms or the lily's petals. 

Here is a packet bearing the impress of a bolder hand. It 
is what is called a back-hand, very graceful and regular in its 
irregularities. Let us rescue these from the general doom, 
for alas ! the writer sleeps the great sleep in Cuba's beauteous 
isle. With everything to enrich and adorn life — wealth, ge- 
nius, friendshif), and reputation — he died in the meridian of 
manhood, a victim to the destroying angel of the Northern 
clime, who, borne on the eastern blast, slays its thousands and 
ten thousands with remorseless cruelty. His was the ardent 
temperament of Burns, united with the passionate depth and 
strength of Byron. His memory was stored with the most 
exquisite poetry of both, which received an added charm from 
his gentle-toned, melodious voice. An impassioned lover of 
Nature, he loved best of all its moonlight loveliness. His 
spirit then revelled in poetic dreams, and breathed itself in 
high-wrought and excited language. In early youth, exposed 
to the temptations of wealth and the fascinations of pleasure, 
the world allured and example betrayed, but his aberrations 
were short — and though he sometimes strayed beyond the 
limits of virtue, he was never seen in the known haunts of 
vice. Once, he uttered a passionate wish that he were what 
Byron was, willing to barter all present good, all future weal, 
for the possession of such genius and fame. This wild wish 
elicited the following thoughts, which, at his request, were 
clothed in a poetic garb : 


Thou wouldst have been that wondrous man, 
Whose mighty mind no mind could scan — 
Who, dark, sublime, magnificent, 
Seemed from another region sent, 
To give the soul's imaginings 
The form and look of breathing things. 
And thou, in manhood's glorious bloom, 
. Whose life such brilliant hopes illume, 
Wouldst barter faith and joy and love, 
All peace below, all heaven above. 
To be that splendid, reckless thing, 
Who dared his shafts at God to fling ! 
The crown of fire on iEtna's brow 
Afar its dazzling light may throw, 
Till starry Heaven's resplendent host 
In the superior blaze is lost ; 
But Where's the eye that would not turn 
From where its wasting splendours burn, 
To the pure silvery light that shines 
Where love its myrtle garland twines ? 

Happy was it for liira, that his aspirations were directed to 
a holier object; that a greater than Byron became the model 
after which his soul fashioned itself. It was as a disciple of 
Jesus he died — and the angel of Christianity 

" With his silver wing o'ershades 
The ground now sacred by his relics made. 

Let the winds bear the flame far from these hallowed me- 
mentoes of one who now belongs to memory alone. Cold is 
now that warm, impulsive heart — quenched the light of that 
once flashing and expressive eye. Cherished then be the 
traces he has left of the genius, and talents, and sensibilities, 
which once brightened and gladdened the circle in which he 

Thanks be to G-od for the invention of letters ! How many 
dreary blanks they fill — how many warm affections they per- 
petuate — how many glowing thoughts they invest with im- 
mortality ! Without them, absence would be death, and , 
space a grave. With them, friends may separate in body, yet 
cling to each other in soul. They are an electric chain, on 
which the lightning rays of thought dart from mind to mind, 
clearing away the vapours which time has formed. Spoken 
sentiments mingle with air and pass away. When written, 
they remain a source of repeated joy and consolation. There 
are certain characters, which, though invisible to the eye, 


when exposed to the influence of heat, become dark and 
legible. So when the lines grow faint in remembrance, we 
have only to draw them within the burning focus of intense 
thought, and they appear strong and distinct. No matter 
how widely friends may be sundered, their mingling spirits 
still may meet, triumphant over mountain, ocean, wilderness, 
or plain. Who have not felt their hearts throb with quickened 
pulsations, as the sound of rushing wheels announces the 
coming of the mail ? Who have not felt the glow of delight 
pervade their whole being, when the eagerly desired letters 
were placed in the hand, or the chill of disappointment when 
the precious communications were withheld ? 

Thanks be to God for letters ! Not only over absence and 
space they triumph, but death itself. In vain the tomb closes 
its marble portals over the form we love. In vain an hermetic 
seal is placed on the dumb and pallid lips — 

" They live, tliey speak, they breathe what love inspires, ; 
Warm from the soul and faithful to its fires." 

No. III. 

A PACKET tied with black I — pause, ere you unloosen the 
band ! The knocker is muffled, and death has put its seal on 
'every paper. With solemn touch release them from the sable 
ligament that confines them. On the first which meets the 

eye is written in faint, pencilled lines, " The last letter of .'^ 

The last ! The hand which traced the characters, is for ever 
paralyzed. The spirit which guided it, has risen where the 
boldest flight of imagination cannot follow. ^^ Farewell \" 
geems to breathe from the sacred folds — " farewell V to echo 
from the broken seals. A solemnity is difiused from this little 
packet, that fills the whole apartment — a shade — a chilluess — 
a twilight of the heart — deepening into the gloom of sorrow. 
We remember a beautiful picture in the Dusseldorf Academy, 
at New York. It is the offering of the Eastern Magi to the 
infant Saviour. The divine child is lying on the lap of its 
virgin mother, while the wise men are prostrated before it, 
with their faces prone to the earth. Triune bands of angels, 
hovering above; look down upon the adoring sages. A flood 


of glorious light flows over the whole picture, and it all seems 
to emanate from the body of the divine child, sweetly slumber- 
ing in the dawn of its incarnation. We know not by what 
miracle of art the illusion was produced, but it was there. 
As the light on that picture, so the shade from these letters 
falls, wide and diffusive, solemn and heart-sinking. 

In unfastening the black ribbon, two separate parcels dis- 
unite, and fall into the lap, both consecrated by the great 
High Priest of nature — Death. It is no wonder a solemn 
mist dims the brightness of the present hour. The memories 
of two radiant minds, two warm, noble hearts, are floating 
around us. The mist condenses into dew — the dew falls in 
tears. They were brothers. 

" Oh ! breathe not their name — let it sleep in the shade, 

•^ -X- -K- * * -X- * 

Sad, silent and pure, be the tear that we shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the turf o'er their heads. 
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weep, 
Shall brighten with verdure the graves where they sleep ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
Shall long keep their memory green in our souls." 

Let us pause one moment, to pay a passing tribute to their 
virtues. What matters it that others know not on whose tomb 
we hang the funeral garland of love ? When we wander 
through a church-yard, our sensibilities are not chilled because 
the dust of strangers heaves the soil beneath our feet. All 
the common sympathies of humanity are stirred within our 
bosom, and we feel as if every monument rising around us, 
consecrated the ashes of a brother or a sister. Then, let a few 
Magnolia leaves, pure as when first they unfold their white 
blossoms to the light, mingle with the cypress wreath of me- 
mory. They are not inappropriate. There is something sad 
in their deep fragrance, and the great moral of life mny be 
read in their fleeting bloom. 

They were brothers. In their early youth their father died, 
leaving them the inheritance of an honoured name, a noble, 
irreproachable example. A widowed mother, and young orphan 
sisters, were a sacred legacy to their filial and fraternal love, 
which they watched and guarded as tenderly and diligently, 
as the Hebrews did the Ark of the Covenant. Inspired by 
the same patriotic spirit which animated their father's breast, 
they adopted his profession, and enrolled themselves under the 
banner of their country. It is said that the army is a school 


of vice and immorality, a dangerous place for inexperienced 
youth ; but these brothers were distinguished for their irre- 
proachable morality, their habits of sobriety and temperance, 
and their lovely affection for each other. They were never 
heard to take the name of their Grod in vain — never known to 
taste of the intoxicating bowl — and the narcotic weed, whose 
fumes are the incense of the camp, never approached their lips. 
The memory of their father, was the pillar of cloud by day, 
the pillar of fire by night, reminding them of the Holy One 
of Israel. Their minds were enriched by historic treasures, 
the elegancies of literature, and adorned with the flowers of 
poetry. Their manners were graceful, polished, and winning; 
their bearing marked the soldier and the gentleman. The 
younger was the less tall and more robustly formed, with a 
more decided and martial tread. He had a rich, deep-toned 
voice, which discoursed most excellent music; a fluent, eloquent 
tongue, which could lend a charm and a power to every vary- 
ing theme, from the thunder of war to the music of love. 
His countenance expressed the restlessness and enthusiasm of 
his character — the selisibility, the passion, of his heart. Of 
him it might well have been said : 

" He is a noble gentleman; withal 
Happy in 's endeavours ; the general Yoice 
Sounds him for courtesy, behaviour, language, 
And every fair demeanor, an example. 
Titles of honour add not to his worth, 
Who is himself an honour to his title." 

The elder was distinguished for the dignity and grace of 
his person, the symmetry and beauty of his features. In 
silence, the repose and tranquillity of his countenance, reminded 
one of the divine quietude of the chiselled marble. But if 
there was beauty in this repose, how much deeper was the 
charm, when, speaking, it kindled into animation ! when, in 
smiling, it was gilded with such inner light, and joy, and peace ! 
It has been said that his smile was heavenly, sweet, and win- 
ning as ever parted a woman's lips. His voice was singularly 
melodious, and fell on the ear like the strains from a sweet- 
toned instrument. None that heard it, could ever forget its 
accents. None that beheld it, can forget the radiance of that 
smile. And there are some to whom its remembrance will 
come like the dream of an angel, like the morning twilight of 
heaven's eternal day. 


We will give a brief sketch of the brother-soldiers, begin- 
ning with the younger, who first passed away, " in manhood's 
noble prime.'' Yet it is difficult to separate them, for, till their 
marriage, the history of one was so mingled with the other, 
it formed a web, whose unravelling would destroy its beauty 
and finish. They were alike in their affection for the home of 
their childhood, in their devotion to its interests. When they 
returned to its luxuriant shades, they were welcomed as angel 
visitants, and to them it was a domestic Eden. They loved 
to watch beneath the kingly elms — twin monarchs of the 
homestead — whose lofty boughs had spread their leafy honours 
over a father's brow, and where the gorgeous oriole, year after 
year, wove its pensile nest. They loved to wander by the 
winding stream, whose clear, blue waters fertilized many a 
green plain and cultivated field, and whose gurgling voice was 
sweeter to their ears than the clarion's blast, or the resounding 
drum. Thus, ever and anon, they turned aside from the 
thoroughfare of life, to bathe their spirits in the dewy fresh- 
ness of its early remembrances. Thus they kept their hearts 
unpolluted in the midst of temptation — warm and true, though 
exposed to chilling contact with worldliness and experience. 
A friend, whose Muse has breathed a charm over the lovely 
valley of their birth, alludes to them in a poem, which, though 
it has never passed beyond the eyes of intimate friends, is 
treasured in their remembrance among things dear and precious. 
She describes their native home : 

"A soldier's widow lives there — one on whom 
My heart pours out a portion of the love that springs 
From patriotic sentiment. 

For long she cherished with a wife's kind care, 
And kept in all the genial warmth of youth, 
A heax't which beat but for his country's glory — 
And she has watched with tender care, the growth 
Of sons, inheriting their father's spirit. 

*'0h! sure the minds that grew in this fair spot 
Have pictures painted on their memory, 
Which, whereso'er they be, when leisure hours 
Wake up the spirit to sweet retrospection. 
Will rise to shame each mean, ignoble thought, 
Each sordid purpose, each unworthy aim, 
And in the keenest hour of suffering. 
Will pour sweet consolation. The remembered beams 
Of moonlight, such as this — remembered harmonies 
Of scenes uncounted, irresistible 
As this we gaze on — lulling us to peace." 


And it was so. With unpolluted spirits, they passed through 
the temptations of youth and entered the portals of manhood. 
They married and made themselves homes, over which the star- 
spangled banner waved, and where the guardian ramparts rose. 
And now we will follow the steps of the younger, till they 
disappear in those trackless regions the living never travelled. 

He had command of a fort, and his martial spirit revelled 
in the scenes that surrounded him. He was in the same scenes, 
where, a beardless stripling, he entered his country's service, 
burning with military ardour. Now, in the possession of the 
purest domestic happiness; in the full realization of his bright- 
est dreams of love and joy; in the dignity of an advancing 
reputation, he trod those ramparts with stately steps and kin- 
dling eye, the commander of those gallant soldiers, who were 
seen issuing from their white-walled bulwarks, at the morning 
reveille, or the evening parade. Oh ! it was a beautiful, beauti- 
ful spot ! We never can forget the moment when we first be- 
held it, glimmering in the pallid moonlight, when we passed 
under the portcullis, and beheld the sentry, with measured 
tread and folded arms, walking '^ his lonely round.'' We could 
see pyramids of cannon balls glittering on the ramparts; we 
could see the starry flag fluttering in the breeze of night. It 
was the first time we had ever gazed on the glittering para- 
phernalia of war^ and we felt hereditary fire kindling in our 
bosom. It seemed an earthly paradise — that beautiful fort — • 
with its gravel walks, clean and level as a lady's drawing-room, 
its warlike decorations, the sublime cannon-peal of the morn- 
ing, the inspiring music of the evening, the pomp, the cir- 
cumstance, the glory of military display, the graceful hospita- 
lity of the commander and his charming wife, the gayety, the 
brightness, the novelty of the scene — all combined to imprint it 
on the memory in indelible colours. Among the papers scattered 
before us, we see some lines written while the impression was 
warm on the imagination. Shall we transcribe them here ? for 
one can paint a picture so much better in poetry than in prose. 
It was written after a sail on the moonlight waters. Such a 
glorious night it was ! So calm, so bland, so bright, one could 
scarcely tell where the sky and water met, only the silvery 
blue of the latter had a quivering motion, and the former was 
still as glass. The deep, rich voice^of the commander, singing 
some martial song, floated over the rippling wake of the barge, 
and blended with the sound of the dipping oars. It was rowed 
by eight soldiers, in uniform apparel, all fine-looking dark- 


browed men, wBose motions, as they bowed over their oars, 
were as regular and graceful, as the wings of a bird flapping 
the air. There were no stars visible — 'the moon was shining 
too resplendentlj — but the revolving gleam of the light-house 
reflected in the waters, 

"Looked lovely as Hope, 
That star on Eternity's ocean." 

There was inspiration in the scene — at least we felt so, when 
we composed the stanzas below — with which we will fold this 
Magnolia leaf, and send it abroad, ere it becomes withered and 
defaced : 

Know ye the place where the white walls rise, 

Mid the waves of ocean gleaming ? 
Where the guardian ramparts meet the eyes, 

And the starry flag is streaming ? 

Know ye the spot where at evening's close. 

And at morning's early breaking, 
The music of battle inspiringly flows, 

The rock-born echoes waking ? 

Oh ! fair is that place, where the sunbeams rest 

In their glory on the billows ; 
Or the moon on her native ocean's breast, 

Her silvery forehead pillows. 

And fair are those walls with the banner that floats, 

To the waves our triumphs telling ; 
And sweet are those clear and warlike notes, 

On the ocean breezes swelling. 

But fairer still are the glance and smile. 

That beamed there a kindly greeting ; 
And sweeter the heart-born tones the while, 

Our own glad accents meeting. 

In the fortress of war, the home of the bold, 

The spirit of love is residing ; 
And dove-wings furl, with a downy fold, 

Where the eagle in power is presiding. 

We stood on the ramparts, and saw the white surge 
Roll onward, then hoarsely retreating ; 
Or the Indian his bark o'er the blue waters urge, 
Some forest descant repeating. 



When evening in raiments of silver came on, 
How calm was the current that bore us ; 

Around us, like diamonds, the clear ripples shone, 
While the heavens bent glistening o'er us. 

But the ray we loved was flashing afar, 

In fitful, revolving glory ; 
It welcomed us back, like a beacon star, 

That watched o'er the battlements hoary. 

Oh ! when, lonely sentinel, when wilt thou beam 
On our path to that gem of the ocean ; 

Where life wore the brightness that visits our dream, 
And time had of snow-flakes the motion ! 

No. IV. 

Since sending you the last Magnolia Leaf, we discovered 
some lines, written upon the beautiful gem of the ocean we 
have endeavoured to describe, in the handwriting of him whose 
character adorns this sketch. They were addressed to a friend, 
and appear to be wij^'omjptu : 

*' The rugged isle, the embattled walls, 

Where erst our lives in concert fell. 
Till Time from hence my spirit calls, 

On memory's fairest page will dwell. 
Along the strand, so bleak and wild, 

Though winds and waves tempestuous came, 
Oar martial home serenely smiled, 

Illumed by friendship's vestal flame. 
Affections there, attuned to thine. 

With social charms would gild the hours, 
The heart subdue, the soul refine, 

And strew the soldier's path with flowers." 

The remaining verses are personal, and may be omitted 
here. They were composed in the wintry season, when the 
wild blasts raved around the embattled walls, as if angry with 
the dashing waves that beat in foam against them. 

We saw him again at another home, — a fortress still, but 
more magnificent than the other. Fort Monroe, at Old Point 
Comfort, is said to be the largest^ most commanding isolated 



fort in tbe world. Situated on the noble Chesapeake Bay, it 
looks down on its grand expanse of water, ready to launch its 
thunderbolts on the foe that would invade its walls. Close by 
are the Rip Raps, or Castle Calhoun, as it is also called, — a 
fort constructed of rock, on a foundation of stone, sunk deep 
into the Bay. Nothing can look more bleak and isolated than 
this rocky hermitage, which was destined to rise in castellated 
grandeur above the element whose dominions it had invaded ] 
but, owing to the incalculable amount of labour required for 
its completion, it remains unfinished, and, at a little distance, 
looks like a huge rock, heaved up from the bed of the ocean. 
Parties of pleasure from the Fortress, in Ibarges and sail-boats, 
resort to this lonely retreat ; and the weary statesman often 
escapes from the halls of Congress, to spend a few days there 
in solitude and meditation. We might have called it a modern 
Delos, thus born in the ocean by the creating power of man ; 
but where were the emerald carpet and glowing flowers of the 
G-recian isle ? 

Nothing was more frequent, in the depth of winter, when 
the Bay was lashed by the storm-spirit, than for vessels to be 
wrecked within sight of the Fort. Again and again, with 
dauntless chivalry, had the gallant soldier, gathering round 
him a band of comrades, gone out to the rescue, and won the 
blessing of the drowning mariner. One dark, tempestuous 
night, when the earth was covered with snow and ice, the 
signal of distress was heard, and a ship was seen, drifted by 
the wind, and tossing on the wrathful billows. Regardless of 
the roaring elements, drenched, chilled, benumbed, he passed 
the whole night in the work of preservation. In returning to 
the Fort, his foot slipped on the frozen ground, and he fell, 
apparently without injury. Inflammatory fever was the con- 
sequence of the night's exposure ; and when he rose from his 
sick-bed, a slight lameness of the knee reminded him of the 
forgotten fall. Strange as it may seem, it was a death-stroke ; 
for, from that moment, slowly, but certainly, began to fail one 
of the most glorious constitutions God ever bestowed on man. 
What a terrible infliction to one of his stately mien, his firm 
and martial tread ! Yet no one dreamed of its being a per- 
manent injury, and his elastic spirit never yielded to despond- 
ency. It was about this time that he accompanied us in a 
journey over the Alleghany; and never shall we forget the 
glowing enthusiasm with which he would indicate the sublime 
and magnificent features of that mountain highway, the fasci- 


nation of his conversation, the play of his fancy, and the vivid- 
ness of his intellect. Weariness was forgotten, and apprehen- 
sion beguiled. Whether passing through some rocky gorge, 
that threatened to enclose us in its narrow and rugged passage, 
— winding round the steep, dizzy verge of the mountain-top, 
high as the eagle's eyrie, — or poised on the brink of the HaioTcs 
Nest, above the murmuring Kanawa, which flows eight hundred 
feet below, — he was still the same bright, mastering spirit. 
What a difference in travellers ! What a difference in human 
beings ! There was a gentleman, who was our fellow-traveller, 
who scarcely uttered^ syllable the whole way; — who seemed 
perfectly unmoved while, bathed in sunshine, he looked down 
on clouds rolling and lightnings darting below, or when the 
mountain-side was covered with one broad sheet of rainbow. 
In passing through Charlotteville, we beheld the summit of 
Monticello, leaning on the golden bosom of sunset. He, our 
military companion, was an impassioned admirer of the genius 
of Jefferson, and proposed a visit to the former residence of 
this great statesman. 

The day was one of the fairest the sun ever made with his 
autumnal beams. The air was so clear and refreshing, it 
seemed to give one wings to waft them to the mountain's top. 
Arrived there, what a prospect unfolded to the eye ! — what a 
glorious panorama ! On one side, the Blue Ridge hung its 
undulating and heaven-sweeping drapery of mist ; on the other, 
the majestic Rotunda of the University, with its classic build- 
ings, — specimens of the different orders of architecture, — 
brought the refinements of Art in beautiful contrast with the 
freedom and magnificence of Nature. The morning breeze 
sighed through the branches of the forest trees which surrounded 
the dwelling, and seemed breathing a requiem over departed 
greatness. The sage of Monticello had planted those trees 
with his own hand, gathering together in one brotherhood all 
that are natives of the forests of Virginia, thus leaving a 
monument grander than marble, and more worthy of his fame. 
We sat down on the long grass beneath those rustling trees, 
and gazed around in silence. The oppression of great feeling- 
was upon us, and speech is not for such moments. If the 
episode will be pardoned in this brief and unpretending life- 
sketch, we will give a few lines to the description of the 
mansion Jefferson once occupied; for Monticello, like Mount 
Yernon, is our country's classic ground. 

The house is built in the form of a rotunda, and has some- 


thing of the air of a Grecian temple. The architecture is 
beautiful, but the proportions are too small for the magnificence 
of the design. The windows of the dome are skylights, which 
let in a flood of sunshine, that must be oppressive in sultry 
seasons. As you enter the vestibule, the eye is arrested by a 
bust of the statesman, placed on a colossal pedestal of black 
ingrained marble, presiding in lonely majesty over the entrance 
of the dwelling. The floors are of tesselated wood, giving a 
peculiar and foreign aspect to the rooms. But the impress of 
other hands is there, and destroys in a measure the interest 
of association. The mount itself was his dwelling-place — and 
there his memory will remain, though his mansion be converted 
to purposes of utility and shorn of its original brightness. We 
would gladly linger on every incident of that journey, which 
developed the noble, self-sacrificing character of our soldier- 
companion ; but if we did, volumes would be written, and we 
fear to blend too much egotism with a record, intended as an 
example of social grace and moral excellence. 

From this time the shadow deepened. The active duties 
of life were suspended — alas ! never to be resumed again. It 
was hard to leave a station endeared by domestic associations, 
at a time too, when the honours of promotion rested upon him -, 
but he was advised to seek med-ical advice in a northern climo, 
and returned a drooping invalid to the home of his boyhood. 
There, amid the love scenes of his nativity, surrounded by 
idolizing kindred, devoted friends, and cheered by that loving 
smile, which " no cloud could o'ercast,^^ the soldier's last tent 
was made. 

In a letter dated at this time, he says : — 

'' I am grateful to Heaven for the opportunities with which 
I have been blessed of seeing you at our martial home i'ti Vir- 
ginia, and during our memorable, never to be forgotten jour- 
ney over the cloud-capped Alleghany. These are among the 
dearest recollections of my life, and I cherish them the more 
fondly, as I am now bereft of that health, vigour, and buoyancy 
of spirit, those qualifications as a traveller, in which I once 
exulted. I must now sustain the weary, stale, Jlaf, and unpro- 
fitable character of a broken soldier. The inspiring music of 
the war-band, the rustling of the star-spangled banner, will 
never more call me to the ramparts, which I once loved to 
tread. ' Othello's occupation's gone.^ '' 

Everything which affection could suggest, or ingenuity exe- 
cute, was done to relieve the monotony of his life. Railings 


were put up along the smooth green sward, on either side of 
the dwelling-house, to support his steps as he walked, and 
rustic seats erected under the luxuriant shade trees, where he 
could sit and enjoy the sweet influences of nature. He would 
sit for hours in the moonlight, gazing in silence on that calm, 
beauteous orb, that reflected its lustre on his pale, placid face, 
and to those who remembered his restless, energetic movements 
in health, this deep tranquillity and meditation was sad and 
touching. It seemed as if the ebbing tide of his life, as it 
rolled beneath the trembling rays, was subsiding into a peace- 
ful equilibrium. Nature brooded lovingly and mournfully over 
her languishing votary, while her stilly dews wept around 

And so he passed away. The brave, the noble, the gene- 
rous, and the gifted. It was when the twilight shades were 
beginning to fall, that they turned from the grave where he was 
laid, and the moon — that moon which he had so much loved to 
gaze upon — came forth, as if on purpose to illumine the spot, 
and to light the mourners on their sad homeward path. What 
were now its beams to him, who had gone to that world where 
there is no sun nor moon, but where the Lord Grod is the light ? 
"What were they to those whose weeping hearts were folded in 
the darkness of sorrow, which the Sun of Eighteousness alone 
could disperse ? 

Rest, soldier, rest. The spot where thou reposest is holy 
ground. Rest beside the mother — once a saint on earth, now 
an angel in Heaven — rest beside her, whose widowed breast 
thy filial tenderness had embalmed and gladdened — by the 
sister, whose memory was a holy incense burning in the heart's 
censer — by the kindred dust of earlier generations. It is 
glorious to die on the battle-field, with the oriflamme of our 
country for a winding-sheet — but it is sweet to sleep on the 
native soil; surrounded by the graves of a homestead. 

No. Y. 

We wiah the breeze that wafts our frail leaves away from 
us, would bring us back a token that they have been gathered 
by some friendly hand, and preserved in some herbarium, 


where heart-blossoms and leaflets are tenderly cherished. Our 
thoughts, like the Arctic dove, go forth, in search of some. 
green pledge of sunshine, and oft come back, without findino- 
rest or the bloomin-g olive. Why this feeling comes over us, 
we cannot tell ; perhaps our task is too saddening. We fear 
we make others sad, and yet there is a fascination in it, that 
binds us down to the spot, where stands the open trunk with 
the packets scattered around. We were here weeks ago, and 
here we linger still. We can realize the charm which led Old 
Mortality to the burial-ground of the covenanters, that he 
might clear away the mossy veil which covered their monu- 
ments, and lift up the daisy and the harebell, that drooped 
beneath its shade. It is true, the memories awakened here 
are of recent date. The moss and rank growth of time have 
not obscured the traces on the tablet ; but when we look back 
to the 2:)ast, the irrevocahle, even if the glance has only months 
or days to travel over, the view seems receding, and we turn 
to memory's lamp and feed it with the oil of meditation. Here 
are some fugitive poems, written by the soldier poet, the elder 
brother of the one who formed the subject of our last sketch. 
He was accustomed to twine with the laurels of war, the 
flowers of fancy and the myrtle of love. They were like 
other flowers, mostly ephemeral; but some of them are too 
sweet to wither away, like the grass of the field, unnoticed 
and unregretted. These stanzas were written on the eve of 
battle, and are descriptive of the character of the writer, who, 
through the densest smoke of carnage, could feel some gleam 
of sunshine in his heart : 

When far from his friends and his dear native home, 
The soldier to fight for his country doth roam ; 
How sweet the reflection, though far he has strayed, 
That still he is dear to some beautiful maid, 
Whose fears fondly follow his steps to the field — 
Whose prayers ask of Heaven his bosom to shield. 

At night, when encamped on the dewy cold ground, 
He dreams that her spirit is hovering around ; 
Her image, which fancy delights to portray, 
Enlivens his march through the wearisome day — 
And even in battle he thinks of the fair. 
Whose hand for his brow shall the laurel prepare. 

His love for music was a passion. It filled him with divine 
emotions. At the close of a short poem, we find the following 
heart-gushing strain, after speaking of the influence of music : 


If e'er I live to see the day 

When age hath made me hoar — 
When pleasures gliding swift away 

Delight my heart no more — 
Oh ! may I have a daughter fair, 

A slave to music's power, 
Whose art shall blunt the edge of care, 

And soothe my dying hour — 
And when she strikes the harmonious strings, 

To sweet delusion given, 
My soul shall mount on music's wing. 

And fancied soar to Heaven. 

Many such gems as these lie hid in the casket, hoarded by 
affection and considered as sacred relics. Some have been 
given to the world. It was his destiny as a soldier, to be 
stationed far from all social privileges and enjoyments, his 
only companions being the soldiers of his camp, and the red 
warriors of the wilderness. 

" I write/' he says, " by the roar of the cataract, and the 
murmurs of the forest.''^ 

He who had been accustomed to shine in the circles of 
fashion, a bright, ascendant star, the " observed of all ob- 
servers/' the gayest of the gay, as the most graceful, elegant 
and fascinating of men, strung his lyre on the wild banks of 
the Mississippi, and sighed not, though there were none to 
listen to its numbers. He found a charm in intellectual pur- 
suits, which beguiled solitude of its weariness, and made him 
independent of circumstance and place. In the long and 
bloody Mexican campaign, they were his solace and recrea- 
tion. And here he attained a prouder distinction than he 
had won in earlier years, as the star of fashion and flower 
of chivalry. He was known throughout the camp as the 
Clwistlan soldier, for the crowning glory of religion was now 
added to his virtues and graces, and the cloud which rested 
over the tents of Israel hovered over his own. We feel con- 
strained to record a beautiful incident which occurred during 
the battle of Monterey, where for three days he fought by the 
side of the gallant Taylor. Towards the close of the terrible 
strife, while the dead and the dying strewed the ensanguined 
earth, through the cannon's breath, his glance fell upon a little 
delicate flower, a Morning Glory, blooming by the wayside, and 
lifting upits sweet and fearless brow to the God of battles. At 
sight of this little flower, a vision of home, of pure, home-born 
joys and affections, passed instantaneously before him. The 


brave heart which had been so dauntlessly opposed to a vin- 
dictive foe, melted to all a woman's tenderness, and tears 
gathered in the soldier's flashing eye. His thoughts flowed, 
without any volition of his own, into the melody of poetry, and 
that night, when he retired to his tent, after unbuckling his 
weary sword, he committed to paper a poem, called the 
'^ Morning Glory of the fields of Monterey. '^ We look in 
vain among these papers for the beautiful lines — for this 
flower, born of blood and carnage — this Picciola of the battle- 
field. Oh, brave and tender, pure and holy heart, art thou 
indeed still and pulseless ? Has the indwelling Deity departed, 
leaving the noble temple to crumble into dust ? Yes 1 He 
who had passed unscathed through the lightnings of war, was 
suddenly smitten by the angel of Death on a peaceful home- 
ward journey. Instantaneously as the electric flash, the bolt 
descended, and the warrior bowed to man's last enemy. He 
fell, as the oak of the forest falls, firm and stately to the last 
— fell as the tree falls, when a strong wind sweeps over it, or 
the lightning blasts it. Is not such a glorious death to die ? 
To be spared the humiliating process of dependence and decay, 
the gloomy passage through the valley of the shadow of death, 
the cold wading of the waters of Jordan; the pains, the agonies, 
the expiring conflict; to be one moment on earth, the next in 
heaven ; to gaze one moment on the mild features of a beloved 
wife — the next upon that glory of glories, whose very thought 
annihilates the faint reaching spirit ? He was prepared for 
the conqueror's coming. Though the joys of earth were sweet, 
heaven was sweeter still, and with it he had long held close 
and divine communion. There were loved ones there, who had 
gone before, whom his spirit longed to embrace. The parents 
whom next to his Grod he reverenced, the children who were 
taken from him in the innocency and beauty of early child- 
hood, and the brother he had so much loved. Not till the 
dark, dark hour, had he deferred the work of preparation. 
There was a daily sanctity in his life, that anointed him for 
the sacrifice of death. 

Man has been compared to a ruined temple, whose pillars 
of original beauty and symmetry are broken and defaced, 
stamped with the genius of the Divine Architect, but incapable 
of being restored to their pristine grandeur. But he seemed 
a temple with all its fair proportions unmarred and unchanged ; 
no trace of ruin was there. Firmness, dignity, simplicity, and 
truth, were the Doric columns that supported it — tenderness, 


sensibility, and grace, its Corinthian ornaments — and religion, 
the sun-gilt dome that crowned and perfected the noble fabric. 
There was an altar within that temple, where the incense of 
prayer and praise were ever ascending, and the threshold was 
sprinkled with the blood of the Eternal Sacrifice. 

He is gone. His memory is honoured among men. He 
had attained the highest military honours, the most enviable 
social distinctions. But others will fill the high military 
station made vacant by his death, and it is easy for society to 
find new idols in place of those it has lost. But there are 
hearts which feel a vacuum which must for ever ache — places, 
which, knowing him no more, wear the sadness and desolation 
of the tomb. His death is the shadow which rests upon the 
homestead. How deep the chill upon its warm, affectionate 
hearts ! The aspect of nature is changed. The wind, which 
made an anthem of praise among the boughs of the elm trees, 
now wails with dirge-like melancholy through the foliage, and 
the moon itself shines with a sickly lustre, as if mourning for 
a departed worshipper. 

Ah ! how true it is, that the more love, the more sorrow ! 
It is a fearful thing to love intensely, when our hold on those 
we love is more slender than the silk-worm's thread. Yet who 
would live unloving, that they may live unsorrowing ? Who, 
even after time has assuaged the first agonies of bereavement, 
would exchange the memory for the hope of joy? Joys 
remembered, are still our own — dearer in retrospect than in 
possession — ours by a security the future cannot know, and a 
holy seal that belongs only to the past. ^' Lord, keep my 
memory green," is the deep prayer of humanity. '^ Blot out, 
if it must be, the remembrance of pleasure, but let that of 
happiness remain ; and if that, too, must fade away, sweep not 
away the recollection of sufTeringj the purifier and glorifier of 
the soul.'' 

It is by contemplating the character of departed friends, that 
we keep '^ their memory green in our souls.''' It is by dwelling 
on their virtues, that their image becomes indelibly imprinted 
on our hearts. The mere act of recording the feelings awaken- 
^ed by these letters, deepens and strengthens them. What! 
burn these papers, mementoes of the noblest, best, and purest 
of human beings — these breathings of affection and these over- 
flowings of intellect ! Mingle them with the rubbish and 
waste things of life — consign them to ashes and oblivion ! No ! 
if we could give them to the flames, it would be as the Romans 


committed tlieir dead to the burning pyre — sacredly, reli- 
giously — and after having seen them pass through the fiery 
process, collect the dust into an urn, and clasp it to our hearts 
as a holy deposit. 

We pity those who have never felt the thrill which pene- 
trates the whole being, when brought into sudden communion 
with the spirit of departed friends. It is an earnest of future, 
unending intercourse, of immortality, of eternity. When we 
write, the thought that the characters we are drawing will 
survive the hand that traced them, should make us rejoice and 
tremble — rejoice, that the echo of our souls may be heard 
through distant years to come — tremble^ lest it repeat what 
may give us immortal regret. 

Lord Littleton bestowed on Thomson the greatest praise 
ever given to man, when he said, his works contained " no line 
which^ dying, he could wish to blot.'' 

No. YL 

We will pluck some fresh and blooming leaves. We will 
lay an offering on the altar of hope, instead of memory. We 
will look on the sunny side of life, instead of its shadows. 

The letters of a young and happy wife must contain passages 
of interest. We will loosen the packet, perfumed with gera- 
nium and verbena, which, though faded and dry, give a fra- 
grance to the papers congenial to the sweetness of their contents. 
The writer is one of those bright, gentle, lovely beings, that 
win the love and admiration of all. There is something in 
her soft, smiling eyes that seems to say, "^ Do you love me ? 
Will you love me ? I can love you most dearly in re turn.'' 
Her voice is low and sweet, her motions graceful and womanly. 
Before her marriage, she was the idol of her father's family, 
— " the youngest, most beloved of all." Her brothers, two 
of whom were candidates for collegiate honours, treated her 
with a kind of chivalrous courtesy, seldom exhibited to a 
sister, however beautiful and affectionate. When she played 
and sung, they would stand by her side, in silent attention, 
turning the leaves of her music-book, and rewarding her with 
approving smiles. Natural affection, thus fed by daily, hourly 


gifts, became purer and stronger with every passing day. " I 
never shall marry/' she would often say, " for I never can 
love any one as well as my own dear brothers. I feel as if I 
would be perfectly happy to remain as I am, all my life, pro- 
vided they should form no dearer ties. I fear their love has 
made me selfish and exacting; for the thought of ever being 
supplanted in their affections gives me exquisite pain.'' 

One of these beloved brothers died in college, of an inflam- 
mation of the brain, brought on by excessive application to his 
studies. He was a delicate, slender, sweet-voiced youth, too 
sensitive and refined to come in collision with common, every- 
day mortals. The dew of piety gemmed the flower of hi& 

"He sparkled, was exhaled, and went to Heaven." 

Death was a blessing to him, for life would have been filled 
with suff"ering. He had tasted only its vernal sweets, and 
passed away before the mildew and the frost had fallen. We 
saw her when in mourning for this idol of her sisterly heart, 
and never beheld a more interesting object. Her sable dress 
formed a striking relief for the pearly whiteness of her com- 
plexion, and a misty veil seemed resting on her smiling, hazel 
eyes. We felt, in a moment, she had been looking on death 
since last we met. She spoke of him as an angel in heaven, 
— as one who was beckoning her to follow. 

'•'■ He was too good, too pure for earth," she said, "and God 
took him to himself. But if ever departed spirits are per- 
mitted to minister to those they loved on earth, I know his 
guardian wings will hover round my head." 

Several years passed away, when a letter came, announcing 
her marriage with a young lawyer of rising reputation. She 
had gone far from the home of her youth, the scenes of her 
childhood, to be a stranger in a strange land; — that gentle, 
yielding creature, who had breathed only an atmosphere of 
love, — who had never learned one lesson of self-dependence or 
self-denial. The energies of her character had never been 
called forth; they had remained in a state of quiescence, 
gathering strength from repose. Here is an extract from one 
of her first letters, written in the warm glow of bridal happi- 
ness, under the excitement of novelty and the awakening 
influences of new connexions : 

" Rejoice with me, my own dear friend, for I am happy 
beyond my sex's charter. I once thought my capacities of 


happiness were all filled; but I was mistaken. I find the 
more I enjoj, the more I am capable of enjoying; the more I 
love, the more I am capable of loving. There was a deep 
chamber in my heart that had never known an inmate; now 
it has a royal guest, to whom I am proud to pay kingly 
homage ! Ah ! I find there is a love dearer than that of 
brother, tenderer than that of friend. I look back upon the 
visions of felicity which formerly passed before me, and smile 
at the retrospect. I used to think that to accompany my 
beloved Edmund (this was the brother who died in college) 
to India's sultry clime, as a missionary to the benighted 
heathen, would be the crown of my hopes and rejoicing. I 
thought while he was preaching I would teach, and prepare 
the darkened minds of those poor children for the celestial 
seed his hand would plant. Then, again, I would dream of 
quiet domestic enjoyment in my sweet sister's family, as the 
good Aunt Alice of her darling children. To sit down at twi- 
light in her snug, pleasant parlour, and gather round me the 
little golden-pated cherubs, while I increased the circumference 
of their large blue eyes by telling them wondrous tales of the 
Genii, or drew forth the crystalline drops by relating the 
pathetic history of the Babes of the Woods, or the mournful 
death of Cock-Robin. By and by, I would become venerable, 
and they would call me ' Mistress Alice ;' and I would mount 
spectacles on my nose, and fill my pockets with sugar-plums 
and chestnuts for my great-nieces and nephews. Ah ! my 
chateaux en Espagne are all demolished, or blown down by the 
breath of love. I have built me a bower of roses, where 
singing birds make their nests, and the wild vines hang in 
beautiful festoons. Will you not come and share it with me ? 
" Let me describe the magnificent scenery on which, by 
merely lifting my eyes from the paper, I can gaze till it is 
daguerreotyped on my mind. In front is a green, green lawn, 
shaded by locust trees, which are now in full bloom, and actually 
burden the air with their fragrance. A grove of mulberries 
is on the right, — the Morus Multicaulis, — planted, probably, 
when the silk-worm fever was at its height, and every one 
expected to walk in silken attire. On the left is an ample 
garden, adorned with every variety of flower ' and flowering 
shrubs. You, who so worship flowers, shall have a bouquet 
every morning, before the sunbeams have kissed ofl" the dew. 
Do you see a green hillock, not very far ofl", rising on the 
north-east ? It is an Indian mound; and is remarkable for the 


symmetry of its form and tlie luxuriant shrubbery at its base. 
Look still farther, at the blue outline of the distant hills, and 
listen to the musical murmurs that come with such a cool, 
dreamy, lulling sound to the ear, telling of many things which 
every one does not understand. 'Tis the voice of the deep- 
rolling Tennessee, that winds majestically on the left, through 
one of the loveliest valleys in the world. 

" ' You write too long letters !' cries my husband, who is 
looking over my shoulder at this moment. ( Very rude, is it 
not?^ 'I shall be jealous of your absent friends. Come and 
let us walk to the Indian mound, and gather some of the 
beautiful wild flowers that embroider it. You know you pro- 
mised to make an herbarium for our excellent friend. Doctor 

. Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone, come and 

wander awhile among your floral sisters.' 

'^ I cannot resist that charming, poetic appeal. I know not 
which I love best, praise or poetry ; but there is one thing I 
love better than both, and that is the husband who can so 
gracefully quote the one and so aff'ectionately administer the 
other. Lord and master of my heart, I obey thy summons^ 
I throw down the pen ; I spring to follow thee. Adieu, dear 
friend ; when I return, I will resume my letter ; and, I doubt 
not, my ideas will be vivified by the western breeze and the 
glorious prospect of the setting sun/' 

When the pen is again resumed, we can see, by the greater 
emphasis of the letters, the freer, more dashing strokes, that 
her spirits have gained elasticity, and her mind force, from 
her evening walk to the red man's green-swarded mound. 

" Oh !" she continues, " I have had such a charming walk ! 
— you would envy me if you knew lioiv charming. How I 
wish you knew my husband; I think, I knoio, you would 
appreciate the beauty and excellence of his character. I do 
not think I can feel perfectly happy till you come and see me, 
and give me an opportunity of introducing to each other two 
friends so precious to my soul. Let me describe him. He is 
not very handsome, perhaps, but he has a most expressive and 
engaging countenance. He is very dark, has very dark and 
glossy hair, and eyes so black, so bright, yet soft, you wonder 
that such brightness and softness should not neutralize each 
other. Then he has such a sweet-toned voice, — so sweet, yet 
manly, that it lends a charm to everything he utters. I wish 
you could hear him recite poetry. I always was passionately 
fond of poetry. You know I have sometimes tried to rhyme 



myself; but I never knew its full and perfect melody till I 
heard it from his lips. I should not omit in this description 
the uncommon beauty of his mouth and teeth, — ivory gatesj 
from which nothing ever issues but pure, and gentle, and" 
endearing words. 

" Oh, my friend, what am I, that I should be so blest above 
women ? — that I should have won the undivided, the first 
affection of so exalted, so amiable a being ? It is with deep 
and unaffected humility that I give expression to these feelings. 
I do not depreciate myself that others may praise ; but true 
love, I believe, is always humble ; — I humble myself that he 
may be exalted. 

" ' Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, 
Brags of his substance, not of ornament ; 
They are but beggars that can count their worth ; 
But my true love is grown to such excess, 
I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.' 

" You know I have been an indulged and petted child, 
cmdled in the lap of affluence and ease ; that I have known 
but two trials ; — one, the loss of my angel brother, the other, 
separation from my kindred and friends ; the last no infliction 
of the Almighty, but imposed by my own free will and choice. 
Since the awakening of my heart, I feel as if it had powers of 
endurance of which previously I had never dreamed. I almost 
wish that want were our portion, that I might show my hus- 
band how willingly, how bravely I could toil, and share the 
heat and burden of his day of care ; — how freely these hands, 
which have never yet been hardened by labour, should minister 
to his necessities and increase his comforts. 

" You may say it is very easy to sit securely in the harbour 
and tell how you would brave the tempest and battle with the 
thunder ; but I do think, were I exposed to the storms and 
billows of life, my spirit would rise with the rising surges, 
possessed of too much vitality to sink below them. Do not 
laugh at me ; for, of all things, I dread the shaft of ridicule, 
especially when wrought up to the enthusiasm of the present 
moment. No ; I do not fear your laughter. You may smile, 
for the smiles of a friend are the sunshine of the soul. Fare- 

My next leaf shall bear on its surface another letter from 
my charming friend. One glance into the inner chamber of 
a pure and loving heart is worth a panoramic view of the mere 


surface of society. We all love to know what is passing in the 
hearts of others, and letters are the transcript of the heart ; if 
not^ shame to the spirit that dictates^ and the hand that writes. 

No. VII. 


The silver crescent of the honey-moon has waxed into the 
full-orbed mellow lustre of wedded tenderness. Our sweet 
enthusiast has tasted a mingled cup since last we met her by 
the Magnolia's blossoms. She has felt the joy and .sorrow of 
a mother's heart. She has been supremely blest and severely 
smitten, and she has known the 

"Soothing thouglits which spring 
From the depths of human suffering." 

Her feet no longer turn, at the sunset hour, towards the 
Indian mound. There is a smaller, newer mound, covered 
with fresh, green turf, to which her footsteps bend. There 
she carries her offerings of flowers, gemmed with other dew 
than the tears of night. There she sits, beneath the mulber- 
ry's shade, by the side of her husband, holding sweet com- 
munion with the spirit of her infant, in the hush of the balmy 

" One month ago/' she writes, " I felt as if my hand were 
paralyzed and my heart turned to stone. I would willingly 
have lain down in the cold ground by my baby's side and died, 
had it pleased God to seal my eyelids with the last great sleep. 
But now, if not glad, I am happy; if not joyous, I am re- 
signed. I will go back and tell you my life's experience since 
last I wrote. It is what thousands and tens of thousands of 
my sex have experienced before, and yet it seems as if there 
was no joy like unto my joy; no sorrow, like unto my sorrow; 
no submission like what I now feel. Strange ! we are less, far 
less in the great mass of human life, than the fallen leaf of 
the forest, or the sand grain of the sea-shore ; and yet, we are 
such vast worlds to ourselves — all infinitude sinks into insig- 


nificance in comparison to ourselves. Am I more selfish than 
others ? Tell me, for I shudder to think how the whole uni- 
verse was darkened by the. veil that was drawn over my single, 
sorrowing heart. 

" About a year ago, God placed a little blue-eyed cherub in 
my arms, and baptized me by the sacred name of mother. I 
felt the consecration in my inmost soul, and made a vow unto 
the Lord, to dedicate myself anew to his service, that I might 
ofi'er my child with unpolluted hands — the firstling of the flock 
— a lamb without spot or blemish, on his holy altar. What 
capacities of happiness and usefulness were born within me ! 
How enlarged seemed my sphere of action ! How sublime 
the career opening to my view ! 

'^ ' What a consequential little body you have become V said 
my husband, smilingly, after listening patiently to a long ora- 
tion of mine, on a mother's duties and cares. ' But alas ! for 
poor me — I see I am dwindling away into a nonentity. If I 
have any positive existence, it is only as the father of this 

(' ' Ingrate !' I exclaimed, while my spirit literally baske'd 
in the tender light of those dark, brilliant eyes. ' Have you not 
told me a hundred times, that my only fault was loving you too 
well ? that you were obliged to repress your own love, to check 
the idolatry of mine ? If I adore this child, it is because it 
is yours — a heavenly link, drawing me closer, nearer to your 

" But why weary you with a description of scenes which 
may seem very foolish to all save ourselves ? For six months, 
I was the happiest of human beings. I cannot give you the 
faintest idea of the exceeding beauty of our little darling. So 
exquisitely fair, such dove-like eyes, shaded by such long lashes, 
and such a sweet, rose-bud mouth. Every day she grew more 
lovely, every hour I loved her more. Yet I trembled all the 
time in the midst of my new-born happiness. There was 
something about her so different from other children, — so 
gentle, so quiet, and dream-like, — she would look up in my 
face so wistfully, and with such startling intelligence, — the 
tears would spring into my eyes as I would press her closer to 
my heart, that ached with its excess of tenderness. Something 
whispered, ' She is only lent thee, for a little while. Think 
her not thine own. Be ready to resign her, when He who 
gave her, calls her back to himself/ 


^^ I can hardly tell wlien I noticed tlie first symptoms of 
disease — it came on so gradually, so insidiously — giving a 
touching languor to the blue eye, a waxen whiteness to the 
delicate skin, and a sinking and relaxation to the late bounding 
limbs. At first, she only languished and faded like a vernal 
flower — beautiful, oh ! so beautiful still ! but then came emacia- 
tion and suffering — suffering, that agonized me to behold. 
Never, till this moment, had I realized the awful nature of sin, 
for it was for sin, that my innocent babe was thus doomed to 
suffer. I pray God to forgive me the impious thoughts that 
struggled for the mastery in my bosom. I dared to question 
His justice as well as His mercy. I said it was right that I 
should suffer, for I had sinned, but ^ What,' I exclaimed, lift- 
ing up my streaming eyes and deprecating hands to Heaven, 
' what has this sinless being done, that thou shouldst thus 
heavily lay thy chastening hand on her ? on me, on me, let the 
burden fall.' 

" How exquisitely she suffered, you may know, since I tell 
you I prayed that she might die — that she might only be at 
rest. When they told me that she was dead, I would not have 
called her back for the universe — the world seemed a wide 
graveyard to me ; but I rejoiced that the feet of my little one 
were not doomed to walk among the gloomy memorials of 
buried hearts. She was happy, though I was for ever wretched. 
So I then felt, but now I can bless God not only for the gift, 
but the withdrawal, I needed the chastisement — I deserved 
the stroke. From the moment when I saw her in her white 
muslin shroud, with white rose-buds and geranium leaves 
scattered among its transparent folds, and saw the mysterious, 
solemn signs of death upon her face, the smile of more than 
earthly placidity and peace upon her cherub lips, I felt as sure 
that she was gone to Heaven, as though I saw its golden por- 
tals opened and her admitted into its celestial mansions. I 
know that she is in the bosom of her Saviour and her God, 
and I can rejoice that I was permitted to give another cherub, 
to swell the orchestra of Heaven. Death is now divested of 
all its terror. I love to meditate upon it. I love to visit the 
grave of my darling, and there I realize the truth of that 
beautiful saying, ' that the graves of infants are the footprints 
of angels.' Do you remember Mrs. Hemans's sweet lines on 
the death of an infant ? Some of them steal over me as I 


* Thy grave stall be a blessed shrine, 
Adorned with nature's brightest Trreath ; 
Each glowing season shall combine 
Its incense there to breathe. 
And oft upon the midnight air, 
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there ; 
And oh ! sometimes in visions blest, 
Sweet spirit ! visit our repose, 
And bear from thine own world of rest 
Some balm for human woes. 
What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine, to messenger of Heaven?' 

^^ Oh ! what a friend, what a comforter do I possess in my 
husband ! Never till now, did I know the full measure of 
his immeasurahle worth, if I may thus speak. While he is 
spared, I must be happy. Even in the hour of deepest agony, 
I felt grateful to heaven that I had his heart to lean upon, 
his arm to enfold me. Great is the mystery of love. It is 
the halcyon of the tempests of life, and yet, the power that 
lashes its billows into the wildest commotion. '^ 

After an interval of a year, she again takes up the pen, and 
see how lightly, how playfully it moves ! 

" Friend of my heart, I greet thee. Flower that I have 
planted in the garden of my affections, I have not suffered 
one petal to fade, one hue to grow dim through neglect. 
You do not know what an admirable housekeeper I am be- 
coming to be. Behold a sketch illustrative of my new accom- 
plishments : 

"The other evening I was thrown entirely on my own 
resources, for my servants were all sick, and cook and waiter 
I had none to assist me. The supper hour drew nigh, and 
I knew there was neither bread nor cake in the pantry. 
There was plenty of flour and butter, eggs and lard, and I 
resolved ^to screw my courage to the sticking place,' and 
plunge at once into the mysteries of kneading, rolling, and 
baking. I determined to immortalize myself, and make a 
repast for my husband, such as his imagination had never 
even conceived. I went into the kitchen, and after obtaining 
some minute directions from the sick cook, I took possession 
of a large wooden tray, into which I sifted the flour, giving 
myself a fine powdering during the process._ Just as I had 
rolled up my sleeves above my elbows, and pinned up the 
skirt of my silk dress behind, to keep it out of the way of 
the pots and kettles, I saw three or four elegantly dressed 


ladies sweeping up the front steps, one of whom I knew must 
be the fashionable stranger, of whom I had heard very much 
said. Oh dear ! what was I to do ? The spider was heating 
over the fire, the dough was sticking to my unpractised hands, 
the flour was adhering to the flounces of my dress, which I 
had too late thought of tucking up. But as there was no one 
else to play the lady, I drew my hands out of the tray, washed 
them till they looked as red as lobsters, smoothed my rumpled 
flounces, but as there was no looking-glass in the kitchen, I 
was not aware that my dark hair was powdered in the fashion 
of the last century, giving me quite a Lady Washington sem- 
blance. I observed that the ladies looked very frequently at 
my head, but alas for human vanity ! I thought they were 
admiring the glossiness and tasteful arrangement of my hair. 
The moment my guests departed, I flew into the kitchen and 
eagerly spatting out my dough, put it at once into the spider, 
without thinking how immensely hot it must be, remaining so 
long over the burning coals. I had made the paste so short 
with butter, I could not turn it, so I placed the utensil in a 
perpendicular position, by putting a smoothing iron behind 
it, and soon saw, with rapture, its surface become a glowing 
brown. It was in vain, however, that I tried to take out the 
cake, when I supposed it sufficiently baked. It would stick, 
and I was obliged to rend it from the spider, leaving a goodly 
portion behind. I was just ready to burst into tears of vexa- 
tion, when my husband, not finding me in the parlour, sought 
me in my new province, and patting me afiectionately on the 
shoulder, praised me into perfect good humour. He even 
passed many eulogiums on my sliort cake, which proved very 
long, as no one could eat more than a mouthful, telling me he 
intended sending a receipt to Miss Leslie, to insert in her 
Cookery Book. I laughed as heartily as he did over my 
failure, and when he began to sing, in his own sweet, winning 
voice, 'Hop light, your cake's all dough,' I joined merrily in 
the song. 

'' Since then I have been taking daily lessons in cookery, 
and am really becoming an adept in the art. I have a linen 
apron, with long sleeves, which my husband declares is the 
most becoming thing I ever donned. I can make light rolls 
that yba?n, and batter cakes that melt. I wish I could enclose 
some specimens in my letter, lest you should think me guilty 
of vain boasting. Perhaps you may think I am degenerating 
into a mere household drudge. No, indeed, I never enjoyed 


readiug and music so mucla in my life. An hour or two in 
the morning devoted to active duties, gives a glow to the 
spirits that does not fade away the livelong day. The con- 
sciousness that if the hour of emergency again arrives, I shall 
not be obliged to give my dear, kind, uncomplaining husband, 
such a horrible dough-cake as I once placed before him, exalts 
me in my own estimation. I feel that I have buckled on my 
armour, and am ready for the conflict of circumstances, how- 
ever hostile they may be. 

"■ Think not because I thus lightly skim over the paper, 
that I have forgotten the past and its solemn teachings. 
There is not a day — scarcely an hour — that the memory of 
my angel child does not come to me, imparting a glory to my 
thoughts and lifting them up to heaven, her dwelling-place. 
Sorrow never leaves us as it found us. It either indurates or 
softens the heart ; either crushes it to the dust, or exalts it to 
the skies. I trust its influence on mine, has been salutary and 

Yes, it has been ennobling. The light-hearted, loving girl, 
is now the thoughtful, Christian woman. Tupper, in his great 
thought-book, Proverbial Philosophy, says, '' that it is impos- 
sible for one to be both glad and good." This is a wide, 
sweeping assertion, but there is much truth in it. Pearls are 
found under the waves, gold in the dark mine, and diamonds 
in the burying sand. The treasures of earth lie not on the 
surface. The soul that travaileth in tribulation and sorrow, 
finds these hidden, buried gems, reserved for the co-labourer 
with Grod, in the sublime work for which we were created. 

But it is growing late. The brief but beautiful twilight 
of Southern climes is deepening into night-shades. Let us tie 
up the packet and close the trunk. A delicious breeze is 
fanning the Magnolia's boughs and shaking out fragrance 
from its dewy blossoms ; one has fallen, and the gale is bear- 
ing it on its wings — a missionary of the heart — to the place 
where it is destined to rest. 
QuiNCY, June 27. 

No. VIII. 

In opening the leaves of an album, a beautiful picture meets 
e eye- — coloured with the warm hues of nature — and, on the 

the eye 



following pages, there is a poem descriptive of that charming 
spot. Ten thousand recollections come gushing up as from a 
living fountain, at the sight of this fair image. There it is — ■ 
that modest, yet elegcint mansion — situated on the brow of a 
swelling hill, like a pearly gem on a monarch's forehead. 
With its walls and pillars of snowy white — its spreading wings 
and ample yard — surrounded by a white railing — its luxuriant 
shade trees and handsome out-buildings — it looks down on the 
harbour of Boston, and witnesses the ebbing and flowing of the 
tide — the coming and going of the white-winged eagles of the 
ocean — and all the changes and wonders of the deep blue sea. 
Crowning that long flight of steps, and at the base of those 
white columns, are vases of blossoming plants, resembling 
Corinthian ornaments to the Doric pillars. Those two tall 
trees directly in front of the building, with the branches sweep- 
ing upward, are larches, and by their side stands the graceful 
sycamore. The gate is open, ' as if some guest had jiist 
arrived. One can almost hear the rolling of the carriage 
wheels over the circular gravel walk — the letting down of the 
steps — the glad sounds of greeting — for that is the palace of 
hospitality, and every day is a gala-day of life. 

When we first entered that mansion, there was a figure 
standing by one of those columns, which made an ineffaceable 
impression ; there was something so remarkable in its whole 
appearance. It was a gentleman, dressed in black, who would 
have seemed in the meridian of life, were it not that his hair 
was as white as fiakes of new-fallen snow. It was not thin and 
weak like the hair of age, but thick, waving, and silky as the 
locks of youth. It looked like snow, fallen, by chance, on a 
green hill, for his form was erect and his complexion wore a 
ruddy glow. A benignant smile of welcome lighted up his 
face, made so beautiful by that rich silvery. crown ! We never 
remember experiencing a more sudden and intense feeling of 
admiration, for, from our earliest childhood, we have paid 
homage to the hoary honours of age, and considered them in- 
deed a crown of glory, when found in the way of righteousness. 
But here was the beauty of age and manhood combined — the 
softness of one and the strength of the other. We have seen 
magnificent hair of every gradation of colour, from the purplish 
or raven black, the deep auburn and golden brown, to the 
pale, lint-white tresses, but never have we beheld anything so 
exquisitely beautiful as these locks of living siioio. As we 


gaze upon the picture open before us, we imagine we see them 
softly waving in the seaborn breeze that comes flowing towards 
them ; we can see the smile of radiant kindness that greets 
the coming guest. There are other figures, too, walking on 
that pillared piazza — happy, joyous ones — and some that 
never could be forgotten. Seated at the open window of the 
saloon, and leaning against a statue of Pallas, which is placed 
in the corner, there is the loveliest young female we ever saw. 
It is a face such as is very seldom seen, save in the dreams of 
imagination — so fair, so bright, so soft, so languishingly beau- 
tiful. The Parian marble against which she leans is scarcely 
whiter or smoother than her brow ; nor are the features of the 
Goddess more symmetrical or expressive than her own. She 
has one of those winning, heart-attracting faces, which inspire 
love at first sight, and it is indicative of all those qualities 
which retain it while existence lasts. That face had a history, 
but it may not be given here. 

It might have been that disappointment had cast a blight 
upon the rose of her youth, or, perchance, a constitutional 
delicacy and fragility, that soon wilted this beautiful flower. 
Perhaps such angelic beauty must be doomed to an early decay, 
for there was something in the languishing lustre of her eyes 
that belonged not to this world. All that love or afi"ection 
could do was done to rekindle the fading beams of life — but in 
vain. They bore her where healing waters flow : 

"She bowed to taste the wave, and died.'^ 

And yet there she is seated, seen by the spirit's eye, leaning 
against the statue of Pallas, smiling with such bewitching 
sweetness, that one is involuntarily drawn towards her, nearer, 
and still more near. Oh ! how warm, and living, and loving, 
she looks I There is life in the soft rose of her cheek ; life in 
the beam of her eye of Creolian darkness ; life in the beatings 
of her gently heaving heart. Can that heart have ceased to 
beat? that cheek to glow? that eye to kindle and to shine? 
There were other statues in that saloon besides the one that 
supported her graceful head. There was the Apollo Belvidere 
— his lips quivering with the divine indignation of a God — 
and Diana, in all her virgin majesty ; and there were pictures, 
on which the eye lingered, riveted by the magic spell of genius. 
On one side was a magnificent copy of Titian's adoration of the 
Magi; on the other, a landscape of Claude Loraine's — so calm, 


SO serene, it diffuses a kind of sunset tranquillity over the soul 
that gazes upon it. You can hardly turn the eye without be- 
holding a picture or a statue — some embodied fable — some 
realization of the poet's dream. Yet almost all those paintings 
are the work of a daughter of the family, whose fine classic 
taste, cultivated by European masters, has embellished her 
paternal abode. 

The owner of the mansion had passed nine years in Europe, 
during the youth of his children, where they had every oppor- 
tunity of improvement in mind and manners which wealth could 
furnish. The court dresses, which were preserved as memen- 
toes of this period, were magnificent, and in looking at the 
gorgeous folds of silk velvet, fringed with gold and bordered 
with ermine, one might forget for a moment their republican 
simplicity. Often, in an evening frolic, were those costly 
robes assumed, and the drawing-room converted into a mimic 
palace. Once, the handsome luhite-loched gentleman, on the 
occasion of a village ball, was persuaded to wear a court-dress 
of black silk velvet by a trio of gay young girls, who considered 
him their beau-ideal of perfection. 

'' You have made a fool of me," he said, laughingly ; " but 
if I impart pleasure to you, I am satisfied — I am willing to be 
laughed at." 

Laughed at ! Who ever thought of associating the idea of 
ridicule with one, whose perfect simplicity and benignity of 
manners entirely eclipsed the splendour of his dress ? for it 
did look splendid, with its crown of spotless ermine ! He was 
the most unostentatious of human beings, and every one knew 
that it was to give innocent gratification to others, not to ag- 
grandize himself, that he departed from his usual republican 
habits. He had the purest tastes in the world. He was 
remarkably fond of flowers — which grew in richest profu- 
sion in his garden — and he made a rule that all the young 
girls that were guests of the household (and there was usually 
a band of them) should wear a garland of flowers upon their 
heads before appearing at the dinner table. He would often 
come and sit beside them and assist them in weaving their 
fragrant wreaths, and they would almost quarrel for the privi- 
lege of twisting one of these floral crowns on the snow-flakes 
of his brow. 

There was a rustic seat at the end of the garden, under a 
noble chestnut tree, where these chaplets were twined, and that 
tree was a cynosure, which attracted all that was lovely and 


briglit around it. Many a gallant knight would recline on the 
soft grass, or tread the green sward^ throwing the charm of 
chivalry over the rural scene. 

Oh ! that garden ! What clusters of roses — what wealth 
of fruit adorned and enriched it ! On one side was a circular 
brick wall, facing the south, against which peach and pear 
trees were trained to clamber like vines, producing the richest 
and most delicious fruit. Such beds of strawberries — such 
hedges of raspberries — and such arbours of grape vines, were 
enough to tempt the taste of an anchorite. And yet, lovely 
as the scenery was in the back-ground, it was still lovelier in 
the front of the dwelling-house, for the sea was there ; the 
gray, the grand old sea, which, whether sparkling in sunlight 
or silvering in moonlight, reposing in tranquillity or lashed 
into billows, was still the most magnificent image of the 
Creator's infinitude. There was Fort Independence, with its 
star-spangled banner and revolving light-house, and, beyond, 
the rocky promontory of Nahant, against whose rugged coast 
the waves dash themselves into foam. 

Oh ! thou beautiful picture ! thou fair leaf from the Mag- 
nolia tree of memory, unfolded by the hand of accident ! how 
many excursive thoughts have received an irresistible mo- 
mentum from thee ? Our eyes glance upon the poem, and we 
are tempted to transcribe it as explanatory of the painted 
sketch. It was intended only for the glance of friendship ; 
but were it more studied, it might have less heart in it, and 
we will attempt no corrections. As travellers often paused on 
the brow of the hill, arrested by the beauty of the prospect 
swelling on the view, the poet has endeavoured to describe the 
impressions of the stranger, and imagines the enthusiastic ad- 
miration that must fill his bosom. 


'Twas summer, and tlie western skies 
Were gilt with sunset's gorgeous dyes, 
While every beam of glory given 
To gild the sultry brow of Heaven, 
Keflected in the waves below, 
Lent back a broader, deeper glow. 
The traveller checked his onward way, 
Amid the pomp of closing day — 
The voice of Nature filled the air, 
And bade him pause and worship there. 


Before him tlie calm ocean rolled, 
Now fringed with broad resplendent gold, 
Where many an eagle of the sea 
Spread its proud wings triumphantly. 
And seemed to dash with conscious pride 
The glittering foam from either side. 
Almost beneath his eye, amid 
Wild rocks and clustering foliage hid, 
A village- rose, with modest charms. 
Enclosed in Nature's guardian arms. 
Beyond, he saw the azure shade 
Of hills, in robes of mist arrayed. 
On whose dim blue the sunset beam 
Had cast a rich empurpled gleam. 

The stranger long admiring stood, 
Gazing on mountain, sea, and wood — 
On flowery field and sparkling rill. 
And moss-crowned rock, till rapture's thrill 
Confessed the charms of Clifton Hill — 
Where all that's fair and wild and sweet. 
In one harmonious union meet. 

Stranger! behold that roof appearing 
Through trees — their lofty branches rearing, 
As if to brave the tempest's wrath, 
Or dare the lightning in its path — 
No gaudy pomp the eye repelling, 
Is lavished on that lovely dwelling — 
But classic elegance and taste 
Have every fair proportion graced. 
Those pure white columns meet the eye, 
In Doric, chaste simplicity. 
Around whose base, the fragrant vine 
Frolics with many a graceful twine. 
But look within. There art displays 
Its fairest works to tempt thy praise — 
The forms of ancient Gods behold 
Imaged in each majestic mould — ■ 
The pale translucent marble lives, 
And life to vanished glory gives. 
Those breathing walls, where beauty beams, 
Bright as in Fancy's brightest dreams ; 
Those walls no foreign hand adorned, 
Its aid creative genius scorned. 
A female artist, whose fair fame 
Has thrown a halo round her name. 
Has left her pencil's magic trace. 
Her home, her parent's halls to grace. 

But linger not, for fading light 
Will melt ere long in shades of night ; 


And still, while day's last splendours burn, 

Once more to Nature's beauties turn ; 

She calls thee to her bowers of balm, 
-More passing sweet in twilight's calm ; 

She calls thee, where her roses bloom, 

Breathing their soft, divine perfume, 

Twining their green and flowering stalks 

Round yonder garden's ample walks. 

She calls thee where her fruitage glows, 

Hanging upon the weary boughs — 

She calls thee to yon shaded seat, 

Young love's and friendship's sweet retreat. 

But vain the eloquence of song. 

To paint these scenes beloved so long. 

I've sat within those sheltered bowers, 

I"ve woven in wreaths those blooming flowers; 

I've stood for hours, as if my soul 

The eternal ocean could control, 

And, lost in awe, beheld the surge 

Onward its restless waters urge. 

But recollections dearer still 

Than nature gives my bosom fill ; 

Here, oft my heart has found its home, 

Nor felt one vagrant wish to roam ; 

For kind affection ever pressed 

Its welcome on the grateful guest — 

The hours in social pleasures past. 

While each seemed happier than the last. 

Here have I seen, in union sweet, 

The charms of youth and manhood meet ; 

The smile of mirth and gladness move 

O'er featm-es I revere and love. 

And rays of feeling warmly glow 

On temples crovmed with living snoic! 

How sweet, when moonlight had unfurled 
Its silver banner o'er the world. 
To sit, all bathed in heavenly beams. 
And watch the beacon's fitful gleams ! 
But sweeter still when music's power 
Gave holier charms to evening's hour. 
The notes themselves were sweet to hear. 
And might enchant a stranger's ear. 
But 'twas Si. friend, whose minstrel art, 
Woke the deep echoes of the heart. 
And every warbling measure stole 
More sweetly in the listening soul. 

Fair Clifton Hill ! the rays that sweep 
In trembling brightness o'er the deep. 
Are lovely — but o'er thee, the star 
Of memory rises lovelier far. 


Strains of harmonious music stealing 
Along the viewless chords of feeling, 
Thrill on the ear ; but vanished joys 
Speak to the heart with sweeter voice. 
If, when released from bonds of clay, 
This ardent spirit soars away, 
'Tis e'er permitted to explore 
This earth, its dwelling-place no more ; 
And round some favourite spot to hover 
That fond remembrance may discover, 
Its airy wings shall linger still 
Around thy brow, fair Clifton Hill ! 

If all I loved shall then have passed, 
Like leaves driven down by Autumn's blast, 
And time's oblivious torrent dashed 
O'er scenes where joy's bright sunbeams flashed; 
Yet pensive echo, lingering still, 
Shall softly whisper, " Clifton HilV 

The following lines bear a later date, and are traced beneath 
a weeping willoW; sketched on the leaf : 

The gales of sorrow, dam_p and chill, 
Have swept o'er thee, fair Clifton Hill — 
And in the tomb, now darkly low, 
Are laid those locks of liviiig snoiv. 
Still fair the breast of ocean shines. 
Gilt by the moonbeams' trembling lines ; 
Still Nature, prodigal of bloom, 
Undimmed, unmarred by man's sad doom, 
Reigns in her wealth of beauty there ; 
But he, in age benignly fair, 
Who owned a father's love for me. 
The kind, the gentle — where is he? 
QuiNGY, Aug. 1, 1852. 

No. IX. 

It is in vain to speak of other leaves, under the shadow of 
these kingly live-oaks — that give an air of grand solitude to the 
place, for they are so- large, so far-spreading, appear so deep- 
rooted, so strong and enduring, they absorb every object around 
them. We have spoken of these trees before, but words 


are insufficient to describe the impressions they make upon 
the mind. They do not surprise one so much by their im- 
mense height as their magnificent breadth — their- amplitude, 
their glorious sweep of branches. Mighty eaglets of the forest, 
they stretch out their green, sinewy wings, almost to the river's 
edge, and wave their moss-covered plumes in the twilight 
breeze. We have a property in those trees — they are a part 
of our inheritance — and we would mourn for the stroke that 
defaced or maimed them, as a personal injury to ourselves. 
We feel enriched every time we gaze upon them, and pity the 
poor being who can pass them without a glowing tribute of 
praise and admiration. 

This is a beautiful spot, on the banks of the Apalachicola, 
and beautiful is the shrubbery that adorns it on the opposite 
side. Last night, a blind negro stood very near the water, 
blowing through a long tin horn, and making some very me- 
lodious strains. After giving a long continuous blast, he 
would pause, apparently listening, when a strain, softer, fainter, 
sweeter, came responsive from the opposite bank, and died 
away under the boughs of the live-oaks. Again and again, 
he wound his shining horn, and again the echo answered with 
sweeter and more lingering melody. We wondered what the 
blind negro thought of the voice that sung so charming a se- 
cond to the notes he played. He certainly never has heard 
of the maiden, who dwells among the rocks and the woods, 
^ the mournful victim of unreciuited love ]' he knows nothing 
of the science of Acoustics — yet he evidently listens with 
pleasure to the fairy Ritornella, and probably imagines him- 
self a great musician. 

When he quitted the bank, and all was again still, we 
turned to the old oaken Druids, clad in their moss-fringed 
robes, so gray and grand ; and, remembering a tale connected 
with a tree, we will try to impress it more deeply on our own 
memory, by relating it to the ears of others. Though the 
tree to which we allude was fed by the dews of other climes, 
it was associated with feelings which, like the bugle blast of 
the blind negro, will find a responsive echo, that will reach 
the heart, however remote. 

Not very fiir from ^the city of Boston, there is a country 
village, which owed its chief celebrity to an elm tree of stu- 
pendous growth, situated just at the foot of a small hill, at the 
entrance of the town. The road passed through the land of a 
gentleman, who dwelt on the brow of that hill, and conse- 


quently the tree also was his property. It had been the pro- 
perty of several generations. Man had come forth " like a 
flower and been cut down.^^ Yea, the scythe had fallen many 
a time on the blossoms of life, and still that tree stood unfaded 
and unbienched, unshorn of its branching honours or its leafy 
crown. Of all his possessions, Mr. Harrington most prized 
this old, time-honoured elm. It was a history in itself — every 
leaf was a page on which some family record was written. 
He loved to sit under its shade, and dwell in spirit with the 
souls of other generations. He was a benevolent man, and 
wanted others to enjoy, likewise, a shadow so liberally spread. 
He had a circular bench constructed all round the tree for the 
benefit of the weary traveller, and the task-worn school-child. 
In the warm summer season, that seat was seldom vacant. 
Travellers, children, and labourers occupied it by day, and 
lovers by the moonlight night. If that tree had a tongue, like 
Tennyson's talking oak, what wondrous tales it could have 
told ! There would be no need of our pen, unless to record 
the fate of this noble patriarch of nature. 

Mr. Harrington had one son of the name of William, who 
actually grew up beneath its branches. He had made himself 
a studying place up in one of the forks of the boughs, where 
he would perch for hours and look down on the world below 
and around — the world of waving grain, and golden corn, and 
blossoming buckwheat. The boy drank in inspiration from 
the scene, and he felt the wings of. his spirit growing like the 
bird, whose nest he had stolen. There he would sit, pelted 
by the rain — and it was a driving rain that reached him in 
his sheltered nook — beaten by the wind, and it was a stormy 
wind that penetrated to his guarded hollow — till the poetry of 
nature stirred within his bosom. But he never felt so poetical 
or inspired as when a little fairy figure of a girl went tripping 
below, with her satchel on her arm and her sun-bonnet on her 
head (or rather on her shoulders, for she seldom suffered it 
to cover her face), or paused to rest awhile on the seat around 
the trunk. Her name was Mary Granite, and her father lived 
within the neighbourhood of Mr. Harrington. Mary was the 
little belle of the school-room, the juvenile star of the village, 
as her name carved on the bark of trees and the surface of 
rocks declared ; and William, though he never carved her 
name in sight, had it written all over his heart. She was 
indeed one of the loveliest of the lovely tribe of gentle Marys. 
So light and airy of step, that 


''The flower she trod on, dipped and rose, 
Then turned to look at her." 

Yet so firm in principle and so excellent in heart, that one 
might as well attempt to move the elm tree from its base, as 
to divert her from the path of duty. What made her loveli- 
ness and excellence more conspicuous, was the contrast be- 
tween herself and her father, who wa* one of the most haughtj^, 
disagreeable, and hard-hearted men, that ever existed. Gra- 
nite by name, and granite by nature, as was often said of him, 
he seemed to glory in those traits of character of which most 
men would be ashamed. He had quarrelled with almost 
everybody in town, Mr. Harrington among the number, be- 
cause he refused to sell him the field through which the road 

As there was no intercourse between the families, William 
never met Mary at her father's house, but they were always 
meeting in their walks, -perhaps not always accidentally, till 
their young hearts so grew together, nothing but death could 
separate them. It is a well known fact, that where there is a 
William, there must be a Mary near — the twin-born soul cre- 
ated for him. It is as certain that our William and Mary be- 
lieved they were created for each other, and every one else be- 
lieved so, but her granite-hearted father, who, as Mary grew 
into womanhood, forbade her having the slightest intercourse 
with the son of his enemy, as he called Mr. Harrington, be- 
cause he presumed to keep his property in his own hands, in 
preference to selling it. Mary thought it her duty to olDcy 
her father's commands, and she no longer sat with William 
under the great elm tree, when the moonbeams beyond its cir- 
cumference made the shadow which embosomed them almost 
impervious to the eye, but if she accidentally met him and he 
caught her trembling hand one moment in his, or gave her a 
glance of undying love, she could not help it, and it made her 
happy long days afterwards. 

At length Mr. Ilarrino-ton died, and to the astonishment 
of every one, left his widow and only son absolutely poor. 
His heart was too large for his purse, and its demands were 
always encroaching on his prudence, William was left with 
nothing but his own energies to depend upon, and they were 
strong enough for an anchor, sure and steadfast. His widowed 
mother resolved to sell the house which they occupied, and re- 
side in a small cottage, better suited to the reduction of her 
fortunes. Mr Granite appeared among the purchasers^ and 


as his offers were the most liberal, she did not allow any past 
animosity on his part to interfere with the advantage of his 
proposal. William's pride chafed at what might seem like 
submission to an enemy, but he was the father of Mary, and 
he caught a golden gleam of reconciliation through the open- 
ing door of opportunity. 

Having made arrangements for his departure to another 
State, where a broader field of enterprise was spread out 
before his young ambition, and having resolved upon what he 
considered the most honourable course of action, he called on 
Mr. G-ranite, and in the most respectful but independent 
terms declared his immutable love for Mary, his conviction 
that he was worthy of her, and his determination never to 
resign the hope of calling her his. Mr. Granite listened with- 
out the movement of a single muscle, or deigning the least 
reply. When William, waxing into warmth and indignation, 
again urged his suit, his words were clipped in two by this 
sarcastic, jeering remark : 

'^ When you are a member of Congress, you may marry my 
daughter, and not till then." 

'^ I will be a member of Congress, and then I shall call 
upon you to fulfil your promise,'^ replied William, with em- 

"If she is not a wife before that time, her chances will be 
very poor afterwards." 

"I should sooner expect yon tree to fall from its base, than 
Mary's constancy to waver," exclaimed William, pointing to 
the elm tree, whose summit seen from the brow of the hill, 
looked like an amphitheatre of verdure. 

A cold sneer passed over the hard features of Mr. Granite, 
and withered away amid the wrinkles. " We shall see, we 
shall see," he muttered ; " time will settle all these things." 

William turned away to leave the apartment, when a sudden 
impulse drew him back. He could not help saying what he 
did, though a choking sensation in his throat impeded his 

" I have one favour to ask, sir, before I quit my native 
village. That tree, sir, is a sacred thing — I pray you to guard 
it as such. Let it still be the shelter of weariness, innocence, 
and age. Some one said that you intended to have the seat 
removed, and a ban issued against the public use of its shade. 
But I do not believe it ! I do not believe it possible for you 
or any man to give existence or utterance to such a decree." 


'^ Why not ?" exclaimed Mr. G-ranite. '^ Is not the tree 
mine ? Have I not a right to do what I please with it V 

"■ jN'o, sir ! That tree was not my father's nor mine, nor is 
it yours. The mere accident of its growing on that soil did 
not, does not, make it ours or yours. Heaven never designed 
such wealth of shade for individual use. It was placed at 
the foot of that hill that the wayfaring man might rest there- 
under, after panting under the burden of life. Sir, my father 
loved that tree, and blessed God for creating it. I love it ; 
every leaf is sacred to my memory, and has a story of its own 
to tell. I trust you will hold it sacred also, and never allow 
a sacrilegious touch to deface its ancient majesty.'' 

"I assure you, young man, I shall not forget that tree." 

And so they parted. He went to mark out his destiny for 
himself. Mr. Granite remained at home, and, true to his 
words, did not forget the tree. 

Two or three years passed away, and William, struggling 
upward all the time, was fast pressing on to the goal of fame 
and fortune. He had two of the most powerful motives in 
the world to urge him on — love, and — what shall we name it 
— that other strong, unsleeping principle, which wrought such 
wonders within him ? If it was revenge, it was of a noble 
kind; the desire to triumph over prejudice and wrong, to 
attain a social height from which he could look down on his 
enemy and force him to capitulation on his own terms. 

At length, after three years' absence, crowned with unpre- 
cedented success, he returned to his native town, assured of 
the constancy of Mary by the unwavering fidelity of his own 

His heart throbbed violently as he approached the shrine 
of his childhood and youth, the altar where the purest obla- 
tions of his spirit had been offered. He looked, but he beheld 
it not ; he rubbed his eyes, thinking a sudden mist had ob- 
scured his vision ; but where that princely tree had stood, 
making a grand pavilion, reaching from fence to fence on each 
side of the way, there was nothing but a dreary blank. Had 
the earth given way beneath his feet, he could not have felt 
more appalled. The sacred memories of years were uprooted, 
the glory of the past for ever defaced. 

Dashing his spurs into his weary horse, he galloped to the 

spot and looked steadily on what seemed a grave, where the 

forest patriarch once stood. It had been cut down root and 

branch — the chasm it had left filled up with earth — not a leaf 



remaining to tell of the rich garniture once woven there. 
How long he sat 'gazing on the desolation of the scene, he 
knew not, but seeing a man walking by the wayside, he 
accosted him : 

" Who cut down this tree ?'^ asked he, in a hoarse, agitated 

"Mr. Granite had it done, sir, two years ago," answered 
the stranger, " and brought down curses on his head, enough 
to wither his soul up. I wouldn't be in his place for millions.'' 

" Does he still live on the brow of the hill V 

"Yes, sir.'' 

" And his daughter ?" 

" She lives with him." 

" Unmarried ?" 

" Tes, sir. And if it were not for that daughter, he would 
have had his house burned down over his head, and himself 
burned in effigy.- But she is such an angel of goodness, she 
stands between her father and the curses of the poor whom he 
grinds into dust." 

William scarcely waited to hear the concluding words of 
the man, but shot up the hill like an arrow. There was that 
burning within him which must find vent — a volcanic passion, 
in which judgment, and prudence, and self-consideration were 
all fused and merged in the lava of indignation. Mr. G-ranite 
was seated in a broad passage running through the house, 
reading a newspaper, when a young man, all on fire, suddenly 
stood before him. His face was embrowned by the rays of a 
warmer sun, and soiled by the dust of travel, but he recognised 
the noble brow and falcon glance of William Harrington. 

" Sir," said the young man, " you are a murderer, a cold- 
blooded, deliberate murderer. You are worse than a murderer, 
for man in a moment of passion may lift his hand against 
his fellow man with unpremeditated violence, and remorse 
rushes in to weep out the stains which crimson his conscience. 
But you, in spilling the life-blood of that tree, cut into the 
heart of the living, who would have died to defend it. It was 
a base, cowardly act, for the victim could not lift up one of its 
hundred arms to parry the blow. It was a deed worthy of a 
Nero, more wanton than the burning of Rome. It rose again 
from its ashes, but the pride of centuries is laid low, and never, 
never can be revived again." 

By this time, Mr. Grranite had recovered from the paralysis 


of amazement, and his wrath burst forth in torrents. He used 
language we would blush to record. 

" Yes," added he, " I bought this place merely that I might 
lay the axe to the root of that tree, on which your ancestors 
have climbed to the height of popularity. I hated it as if it 
were a living being, and in every blow laid upon its trunk, I 
shouted as if an enemy had fallen. Leave my house, young 
man, and never dare to set foot in it again. Leave it, I say, 
and if ever my daughter " 

" Oh ! father I" exclaimed a sweet, entreating voice, and a 
fair, fairy form stood in the door, with pale cheeks and tear- 
ful eyes, repeating the simple, pathetic adjuration, " Oh ! 

William sprang forward and clasped her joined hands in 

" Mary," said he, " has he laid the axe too to the root of 
your affection ? Has it been destroyed like that noble tree ?" 

" Mary," cried Mr. Granite, " he has insulted me. He is 
an insolent wretch. I forbid your speaking to him. I forbid 
his ever darkening m}^ door again, I forbid both, on the 
penalty of my everlasting curse." 

Mary uttered a faint shriek, and would have fallen, had not 
William thrown one arm around her, and pressed her to his 

" Let her go !" cried the exasperated father, '' let her go, or 
by Heaven, I will level you to the ground." 

'^ Strike me if you dare I" exclaimed William, "yea, cut off 
this right arm, if you dare, and I will sustain her with the 
other. I am not a passive tree, that you can hew down with 

By this time the white railing in front of the house was 
darkened by human figures leaning over it. The man whom 
AVilliam had accosted, followed him, and others returniug 
homeward from their daily work, attracted by the indignant 
tones of William, and the wrathful accents of Mr. Granite, 
gathered round the house, hoping that the day of vengeance 
was come. They only wanted some one to give them a momen- 
tum, to roll upon him the accumulated burden of their wrongs, 
and crush him beneath their weight. 

William, as soon as he became aware of their vicinity, dread- 
ing some scene of violence, released his arm from Mary, whose 
strength was now partially restored, breathed into her ear a 
few low, emphatic words, and left the house. Thank Heaven ! 


there was one heart and home open to receive him, where 
the storms of passion were lulled to rest, and temptations 
entered not. 

About a week after this incident, Mr. Granite left town on 
urgent business, and did not return till a late hour. It was 
nearly midnight, but as there was a full moon, the night was 
like another day, to the traveller. He rode leisurely along, in 
his one horse carriage, indulging in some very comfortable 
naps, while rolling over the smooth, safe road. There was a 
piece of woods, just before the entrance into town, where it 
was always twilight, in sunshine or moonlight. As he was 
passing the wood, luxuriating in a light, downy slumber, he 
was roused by a blast, as of a thousand furies ; sounds so fierce 
and discordant, rushing pell-mell upon each other, were enough 
to chase the sleep of the dead. For a moment he thought he 
had awaked in a lower world, so hideous and unearthly was 
the noise, when a band of martial figures emerged from the 
thicket and surrounded the carriage, each one bearing some 
peculiar and original instrument. Horns, tin pans, drums, 
joints of stove-pipes, wooden tubes, all served as vehicles for 
their wrathful spirits. The horse, frightened by the tumult, 
reared and plunged ; but one, who seemed to be the leader, 
seized him by the bridle and threw him back on his haunches. 

" Come on," he cried, in a voice of thunder, " we are ready." 

Two tall men, in masks like the rest, here rushed out of the 
woods, bearing a rail between them. 

" We'll give you a better carriage to ride on," they cried ; 
^^make haste, and we'll help you to mount." 

Mr. Granite saw himself at the mercy of an exasperated 
mob, exposed to the most degrading insult that can be inflicted 
on a gentleman, and he turned cold as ice. He knew of no 
means of escape, and gave himself up to despair. He had so 
long exercised supreme power in the village, by the despotism 
of an iron will, that he was terrified by this sudden and power- 
ful insurgency, and cried out in the impotence of fear and 

" On with him," cried the leader ; " let him ride by the 
light of the moon, and the way we'll serenade him shall put 
life into his wooden horse." 

'^ William Harrington," cried the wretched man, " I know 
you; I am in your power; spare me, and my daughter is 

" I am not William Harrington," answered the man, in- 


dignantly : '' but I am his friend, and the man who insults 
and wrongs him, is ray enemy, now and for ever. Yes ! he 
shall have your daughter, but not until you are humbled and 
punished as you deserve to be. He knows nothing of this. 
It is for us to avenge his wrong and ours — and we will do it/' 

Struggling and calling aloud in frenzied accents for help, 
the victim was torn from the carriage, and another moment 
would have seen him elevated on the seat of disgrace, when 
there was a crashing among the branches, and a young man, 
without hat or coat, leaped into the road right before them. 

" What is all this V he cried imperatively. " What are 
you doing, waking the silence of midnight by such a horrible 
tumult ?'^ 

" We are going to give old Grranite a moonlight ride — that 
is all," exclaimed a rough voice. 

'' Shame I" cried William, ^' to attack a defenceless man. 
It is cowardly— base. Let him go, my friends. Believe me, 
you will all blush for this by to-morrow's sun.'' 

" Let him swear to give you Mary, then," said the leader, 
who was distinguished by a tall black plume, waving above 
his mask. " It is for your sake we have done this, not our 

" Thank you," replied William, " but I desire no extorted 
promises. I have his word already, that as soon as I am a 
member of Congress she shall be mine. Will you give me 
your votes, my friends?" 

Three hearty, vociferous cheers echoed through the woods, 
and then three times three. 

^' Will you release this man, unconditionally, for my sake ?" 
he asked, with dignity, turning from one to the other of the 
masked figures. " For my father's sake ?" he added, in a 
softer tone, " for my grandfather's ? for the sake of the old 
elm tree ?" 

" Yes, we will," they answered ; '^ but unless he gives you 
his daughter, he had better never go three yards from his own 
door again." 

Thus saying, they blew another blast of deafening power, 
and disappeared in the thicket. William was left alone with 
his enemy, with the moonbeams playing brightly on his un- 
covered brow. 

" Let me assist you- into your carriage, sir," said William, 
with more respect of manner than he had ever assumed before. 


He pitied him for the degradation from which he had rescued 

There is^ in every nature, some traces of the original bright- 
ness left. However long it may be darkened and obscured, 
it will sometimes break forth like the sunbeam at the close of 
a fierce, stormy day. The sudden interposition of William in 
his behalf, his magnanimous appeal and respectful manner, 
touched the one place in his heart that was capable of feeling. 
It is true, he was afraid of the mob, and must have yielded 
through fear of future outrage ; but for the fi.rst time a glimpse 
of William's noble qualities beamed on his vision — and a con- 
trasted view of his own meanness and vindictiveness rose to 
enhance their beauty. 

" Take my daughter, William/^ said he, extending his hand, 
'^ and let us forget the past." 

William and Mary were wedded and were happy, but it wag 
not possible to forget the past. It was not possible to forget 
the noble tree, associated with all the sweet memories of 
childhood and the springing aspirations of youth. "But 
though cast down, it was not destroyed." It lived in the 
energies of William's noble heart — lived in his pure and holy 
love of the beautiful and the good. The thoughts born and 
nurtured within its sheltering boughs were immortal, and could 
not die. They branched out, like the ramifications of its 
giant strength, and became protection to the weak, and shelter 
to the oppressed. They rose up to heaven like its topmost 
leaflets, and sunned themselves in a brighter sky and revelled 
in a purer atmosphere. No — the noble elm tree was not 
destroyed — it could not die, for its vitality was infused into 
another being, and through that being, imparted to a thousand 

Mr.- Granite lived to see his son-in-law a member of Con- 
gress, and his eloquence the pride of his native state. When 
he was elected, the citizens gave him a dinner in the shade 
of the thicket from which he had rushed to the rescue of 
Granite, and again three cheers rent the heavens. 

May heaven spare these noble live-oaks from the axe of the 
tyrant and the hand of the assassin; and may some youth, 
with the spirit of William, be nurtui-ed 'neath their shades, 
who shall make the banks of the Apalachicola immortal with 
his renown ! 

OcuESSE, August 10, 1852. 


- No. X. 


A PHILOSOPHER once resolved to commence with the morn- 
ing's dawn, and devote the whole day to following the move- 
ments of a child, hoping to derive great assistance in the study of 
metaphysics during the process. When twilight came on, he 
was perfectly wearied and exhausted, and the only conclusion 
to which he had arrived was, that of all animals, man was the 
most restless and unreasonable. He had intended to take 
notes of all that occurred, but he found everything could be 
included in the compendious word, motion. 

It is as exceedingly difficult to follow the movements of a 
feverish imagination, and yet there is something in the wild 
aberrations of mind, with its reins momentarily loosely floating, 
more interesting than a sober and connected train of reasoning. 
I will try to describe some of these vague and wandering 
thoughts, just as they originated, drifting me along here and 
there, without guide or compass, on the pathless ocean of in- 

Have you ever -felt the throbbings of fever in your veins, in 
your temples, your brain, till every pulsation resolved itself 
into a prayer for coolness ? Till there was but one vision of 
beauty in the whole, wide universe — and that was ice ? 

It was in just such a state as this, the other evening, that 
the vision passed over me, or rather held me, spell-bound, in 
its icy folds. Oh ! it was such a lovely moonlight night ! So 
icy pure — so silvery bright ! The beams, as they fl.oated on 
the face of the earth, looked like an ocean of quivering water, 
and I thought I was borne along on the current, without any 
volition of my own, a burning speck, which all that ocean flood 
of brightness could not quench. The waves seemed warmed 
around me, but far away, they glittered so cold, so pure, 
so clear, if I could only reach one of those sparkling ice 
islands, I would never more sigh for the forfeit bowers of 
Eden. Floating onward and ever onward, I could see figures, 
shaping themselves out of the bright, frosty atmosphere, so 
beautiful and tantalizing — so wooing, so mocking — now 
beckoning with transparent, glittering hands — now waving 
back the approach with forbidding, threatening gestures ! 
They were the ice spirits abroad on their moonlight revels, 
and imagination cannot conceive of their resplendent beauty. 


Ah ! let poets rave about mermaids, sitting on tlie coral cliffs 
of ocean, braiding their sea-green ringlets — of maids enticing 
the River G-ods with their strains of more than mortal melody ; 
but they cannot compare with the ice spirits, the Aurora 
Borealis children of a feverish imagination. They rise in 
clusters above the foam-crested waves. Their hair flows in 
ringlets of diamonds ; their eyes are the cold, bright northern 
stars, sparkling under lashes of frozen mist ; their smile, the 
reflection of moonlight on the polar seas. They come nearer 
and nearer. I feel their pure, chill breath on my burning 
cheek ; they stretch out their cold, glittering arms, and I 
feel myself slowly, lingeringly, closely elapsed to their bosom 
of ice. 

The vision vanishes. The beautiful mocking spirits are 
gone. There is nothing but the still midnight moonbeams 
shining in through the lattice-work, silvering the large leaves 
of the vine, and making bright, gauzy festoons, looped up by 
beams and fastened by stars against the flower-twined frame- 
work. The night-breeze rustles through the long trailing 
tendrils, clambering over the bars, and shakes the crimson 
blossoms that enrich the deep green of the leaf-work. How 
like the whisper of invisible spirits it sounds ! Another vision 
rises. It comes from an icy-cold world, and a feeling of inex- 
pressible repose is difi"used over the restless, panting spirit. 
It comes from the land of coolness and rest. It is not the 
breeze that sighs through the vine leaves — it is the breath of 
those who have mingled again with the elements from which 
they were originally created. They never speak but in the 
silence of the night. They never come forth but in the moon- 
light hou7\ 

Thus the vision flows : 

Oh! 'twas a dream — a sweet, a dewy dream — 

Sent to refresh me in the feverish hour ; 
The cooling murmur of the forest stream, 

The west-wind whispering to the fainting flower. 

Oh ! blessed mother ! I, once more a child, 
On thy dear bosom, in thy arms reclined — 

Thy lips of love met mine and gently smiled, 
Thy tender hand my burning one entwined. 

I felt thy fingers on my throbbing brow. 

Thy breath sighed softly on my glowing cheek ; 

Oh ! angel ministrant, where art thou now ? 
Speak to me, mother, blessed mother, speak ! 


Thou hast no voice — thou turnest on my gaze 

Eyes of immortal depth — my spirit quails 
Beneath their still, unfathomable rays — 

Lamps of the tomb ! what mist your brightness veils ? 

Again I seem alone. My head is laid 

On the damp grass, beneath the willow's boughs ; 

The pallid moonbeams glimmer through the shade, 
And the night air in rippling coolness flows. 

I see a marble stone gleam pure and white — 
The dead, my soul, the dead are sleeping near — 

My mother's name gleams in that ghostly light, 

That blessed name ! then, wherefore should I fear ? 

Oft, in my dreams, I've seen that sacred mound : 
That gleaming marble in the churchyard's gloom : 

There have I knelt and wept, while sweeping round, 
I've felt the chilling shadows of the tomb. 

Dear, sainted mother ! in the languid hour 

Of pain and sickness, how my heart has thrilled 

O'er childhood's memories, and each bosom flower 
With more than earthly redolence been filled! 

It was not all a dream. There lingers yet 
A life, a warmth — a deep, immortal glow — 

My soul with thine in heavenly trance has met, 
While dim and cold Time's billows roll below. 

And we shall meet again, my spirit saith, 

Where sorrow, pain, and death can never come : 

Oh ! for the wings of a triumphant Faith ! 
Oh ! for that land of glory, light, and bloom ! 

With the soft lulling of the midnight gale, the holy vision 
passeth away, leaving behind a halmness, a coolness, a divine 
repose, that is not born of this world. If it were possible to 
describe fully and clearly a revery like this ! There certainly 
are moments when the wall that separates us from the spirit 
land, which sometimes seems of iron darkness and thickness, 
is thin and clear and brittle as glass — when we fear to move, 
lest it shiver and break — and we find ourselves in the unveiled 
presence of the mystery of mysteries. 

Byron says a change came o'er the spirit of his dream — and 
so there came o'er mine. Of all forms of existence, that of 
revery approaches nearest the heavenly. The body is but an 
accident. It might belong to any one else, for any interest 


that we may feel in it. Only let it lie still and feel a breeze 
stealing over it, and it will trouble no one, unless the demon 
of fever gains possession of it. Oh ! delightful revery ! Oh ! 
soothing, vague dream of existence ! quietude succeeding pain- 
ful excitement — subsidence of the stormy waves of thought ? 

There is more of the earth, earthy, in this phase of the 
dream-picture ; but it is the flowers, the bloom, the sweetness 
of earth ; nothing dark or subterranean about it. The ice 
spirits no longer come glittering, smiling, in their cold, un- 
earthly beauty ; the angel spirits no more glide between me 
and the moonbeams; there are earthly forms and earthly faces, 
all wearing the stamp of a heavenly mission — all mingling so 
with spiritual dreams, one cannot tell where the ideal and the 
real meet. 

There is a sweet maiden, of a Saxon name, with blue, loving 
eyes, and a glad, affectionate smile, who seems formed to be 
the ministrant of peace and comfort to the suffering children 
of humanity. How quiet and gentle are her motions ! How 
calm and tender the accents of her voice ! She comes near — 
she bears in her hand a crystal dish, in which the most beauti- 
ful crimson blends with the purest white. ■ A cool, refreshing 
dew gems the crystalline surface of the vessel. Angels of 
mercy and ministers of consolation ! It is some of Strupper^s 
delicious strawberry cream — the nectar, the ambrosia of the 
Grods ! But alas ! the dewy glass vanishes — the blushing 
cream melts into air — the loving, blue-eyed maiden disappears, 
and nothing is lefc to fill the aching void. Yes — another comes 
— another damsel, as kind, as gentle, and as good, with a glad- 
der smile and a more joyous accent; and the perfume of violets 
embalms the air through which she moves; a crystal vase, in 
which the ice-6eams sparkle, glitters in her hands. She ad- 
ministers the cooling draught, when, just as it is about to touch 
the thirsty lip, it dries up, leaving nothing but the empty cup 
of Tantalus — the fever of unsatisfied desire. 

'^ / will not deceive you,^' exclaimed a mild, sympathizing 
voice ; " for my office is to bind up the wounds of disappoint- 
melit, and to heal the sorrows that man is born to feel. If 
there must be suffering, be it mine to relieve. If there must 
be a shadow, be it mine to gild and soften the edges. '^ 

Ah ! I know that voice, and I know the expression of that 
gentle, sympathizing countenance, " that seems to love whatever 
it looks upon." Often and often has it come, in the night- 
time of care, and left an impression of hope and brightness 


behind it. But it will not now remain long. Between it and 
me the Chattahoochee is now rolling : and it rolls between me 
and the fair-haired maiden, who wears the name a beauteous 
Saxon damsel once adorned : and it rolls between me and the 
maiden embalmed with the violets sweet perfume, and many 
another angel spirit, too : and it rolls a watery barrier between 
me and that well-remembered saloon, where strawberries and 
ice-cream temper the sultriness of summer's burning heat. It 
is all a mirage. There is nothing but memory left. Nothing^ 
but memory ! Ah ! memory is a great deal. What would/ 
life be without it ? 

Beveries ! Well, I suppose reveries are very foolish things ; 
but Ike Marvel has written a whole book about reveries, which 
everybody loves to read, from the simple fact that they are 
idealities, and that there is not a word of truth in them — that 
is, of reality. But realities are sometimes very sweet, and 
make us cease to sigh for what is beyond our reach. What a 
delicious cloud of' fragrance is floating near ! What a charm- 
ing bouquet comes, bearing the greetings of friendship, asso- 
ciated with the charms of refinement and taste ! The rich 
breath of the glowing oleander — the sweet and graceful honey- 
suckle — the most beautiful of roses — the waxen petals of the 
cape jasmine — unite to grace this token of kindly sympathy. 
Nor is this all. Green and refreshing clusters of newly 
gathered grapes, show how beautiful the assemblage of fruit 
and flowers may be ! 

Yes I this is a beautiful world ! It is full, overflowing with 
beauty and kindness, and yet we are often unconscious of it, 
from its very diffusiveness. Like the air we breathe, it is all 
round and about us, and we only know how happy it makes us 
from our wretchedness when it is withdrawn. There is so 
much to admire and love, we sigh for capacity to take in the 
full amount of blessedness. How can a single heart take in 
the boundless circumference of Grod^s mercies ? 

Yet, there ar so many strange people in the world, one\ 
knows not what to think of them. They walk along through • 
paths all strewn with flowers, with as much indifl'erence as if/ 
they were wading through weeds. 

" What is the use of this fading tinselry V^ they say ; ^^ we 
have not time to gather it ;^' and so they hurry along and 
gather up handfuls of yellow dust instead; and they rush 
along the shore of life, picking up pebbles and sand, letting 
the pearls and diamonds go, as too much trouble to gather. 


They must dive for the pearls and filter the sand for diamonds. 
The pebbles lie smooth on the surface, and they shine in the 
sunbeams almost as brightly. 

Well, whether we gather pebbles or diamonds, pearls or 
sand-grains, the great ocean of truth keeps rolling on, and we 
are borne on with it. Whether we gather flowers or weeds, 
the great garden of Nature keeps blooming on, and the air of 
life is laden with the fragrance. 

Life itself is a long, beautiful revery. In the fitful fever 
and unrest, the strife and turmoil of existence, we dream of 
the ice spirits that will come with their breath of frost and 
cool the veins, panting with excitement and throbbing with 
heat. We dream of the spirit ministrants, fanning us with 
their wings of love, and tempering with their cool celestial 
plumage the sultriness of a day of care. We dream of the 
loved ones, whom space severs and distance divides, but whose 
hearts are a part of our own identity, and make but one pulse 
with our own. 

By and by, the fever will pass away — the reveries will pass 
away — and who can tell the brightness, the beauty, the glory 
of the awakening? ^' Eye hath not seen it, nor hath ear heard 
it, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive it." 
But God knows, and it is the office of Faith to wait, and trust, 
and believe. 

QuiNCY, August 31, 1852. 


No. I. 

An intelligent traveller has observed, " that one could judge 
of the civilization and refinement of a people, by the appear- 
ance of that silent city, peopled by the dead." If the wild 
brier and long grass are suffered to grow over the neglected 
graves ; if the beast of the wayside is suffered to desecrate the 
hallowed ground, and leave its defacing traces on the sinking 
mould — then we may believe that the hearts of the living are 
in the same neglected state, and that they are unworthy guar- 
dians of the most sacred trust committed to mankind. 

The dead ! how solemn, how awful the sound ! We invo- 
luntarily pause and hold our breath as we utter it. We write 
the phrase, and it assumes a sad, sepulchral aspect. The liv- 
ing ! the dead ! write them side by side, and see how different 
they appear. Hues of beauty and bloom and grace glow 
around the first — pallor and chillness and immobility settle 
round the last. We shrink from the contemplation. We 
veil our eyes, we fold the mantle close around our hearts, as 
if its very pulsations could see, and endeavour to exclude the 
cold and dread reality. But in vain. The living and the 
dead are linked together by a chain which cannot be broken, 
and far better is it to wreathe that chain with flowers and 
suffer it to fall lightly round our spirits, than writhe under its 
pressure, till the gall and the wound bear witness to the 

The dead ! how dear, how sacred the sound ! Where is the 
eye that does not involuntarily glisten at its utterance ? Where 
is the ear that does not bend in earnest attention, as it comes 
slowly, sadly, like a deep-toned bell, on the hearing ? In the 
moment of hilarity, the hour of happiness, the joys of social 
22 ■ (253) 


intercourse, tlie deep and thrilling communion of kindred 
hearts, when life wears a glow so soft and bright that it seems 
coloured with the tints of heaven, suddenly the thought of the 
loved, the lost, the dead, flashes on the mind, and ih.Q present 
vanishes like a dream. The banquet of the heart is broken 
up — an invisible hand has written upon its walls, and a 
greater than Daniel has interpreted the mystic characters. We 
feel our own utter impotence, the uncertainty of every earthly 
blessing, the frail tenure by which we hold them, and clasping 
our hands over our aching bosoms, we raise our imploring eyes 
to heaven, wondering why we are born to love, only to mourn 
— to cherish the sweet flowers of affection, only to see them 
wither away and die upon the tomb. 

The dead ! how sublime, how glorious is the sound ! If the 
living and the dead are linked together by a chain that cannot 
be broken, so are the dead and the immortal. There is but 
one passage to heaven — a dark, subterranean one, winding 
through sunless regions and mouldering relics and vestiges of 
corruption — through the vast Herculaneum of life — but a light 
gleams in the dim earth-gallery. It grows brighter and 
brighter and clearer and clearer — and when the gates open 
there is an exceeding blaze of glory. Yes, the gates of the 
grave are the portals of the skies — and the Lord of the skies 
came down and walked himself through the deep aisles of that 
subterranean gallery, and left a brightening light for the poor 
wanderers of earth to follow. 

From earliest antiquity the memory of the dead has been 

Abraham, the aged patriarch, ^^ stood up from before his 
dead, and spake unto the sons of Keth, saying, 

" I am a stranger and a sojourner with you ; give me a pos- 
session of a burying-place with you, that I may bury my dead 
out of my sight.'' 

The cave of the field of Machpelah became the burying- 
place of Sarah his wife — and when he was gathered to his 
fathers, he was laid by her side, in man's first purchased rest- 

The Scriptures abound in allusions to the sacredness attached 
to the last home of man. The solid rock was hewn as a re- 
ceptacle for his remains, and the running brook murmured 
mournfully by the place of his repose. The wild Indian 
cherishes, with superstitious reverence, the relics of his ances- 
tors. If he raises his wigwam in newer hunting-grounds, he 


bears witli him their mouldering bones, that he may chase 
with them the deer and the bufialo, in the land where the 
Great Spirit dwells. 

The Romans had a sublime custom of burning their dead, 
thus purifying them from corruption, and sparing them the 
sad and humiliating process of slow decay. They gathered 
the sacred dust in an urn, which they could bear with them, 
from clime to clime, and, clasping it to their yearning hearts, 
almost cheat themselves into the belief, that 

" Even in their ashes lived the wonted fires." 

^''But where," methinks some voice exclaims, "is the Pa- 
radise of the Dead, to which our thoughts were directed at the 
commencement of these lines V 

Have you ever visited G-reenwood Cemetery ? If you have, 
you will realize the truth of the expression. If you have not, 
you should make a pilgrimage there at once, and wander amid 
its green paths and lovely enclosures, till you feel your spirit 
bathed in the divine repose of the scene, and you long to set 
up there your everlasting rest. 

This beautiful burying-ground is in Brooklyn, several miles 
from the city of New York. As you pass along the road that 
leads to it, with the magnificent Bay on your right, its wide 
expanse of water glittering in the sunbeams, so calmly and 
majestically, your mind becomes gradually solemnized, for 
there is always something solemn in deep beauty combined 
with great extent. You approach the Gate of Visiters. 
The access to this entrance has an air of seclusion appropriate 
to the solemn resting-place of the dead. Graceful structures 
from the masterly designs of Upjohn, guarding this entrance, 
enhance with their exquisite decorations the beauty of the 

Once admitted into this labyrinth of bloom and verdure, 
you feel bewildered at its' prodigality of loveliness, and hardly 
know where to turn, in the midst of so many winding alleys. 
But after walking a short distance, your ear catches the faint 
murmur of waters, — faint and sweet as the echo of a dream. 
Directed by the sound, you approach the margin of Si/lvan 
Water, a deep, perennial lake, covering at least three acres 
of ground. In the centre of this lake a fountain throws 
up its silvery spray, flashing and sparkling through the green 
shrubbery that shades, and the willows that sweep over ita 


banks. The birds make their nests in these marginal boughs, 
and make these funereal solitudes vocal with the melody of 

Near the south-western corner of Sylvan Lake, there is a 
gently undulating mound, crowned by a monument, comme- 
morative of the death of a beautiful daughter of the forest. 
Dohumme, the lovely Indian, was the child of a Sachem among 
the Sac Indians. When a delegation of the Sacs and the lowas 
visited Washington and the principal Atlantic cities, the young 
Dohumme accompanied her father, and in the same band was 
a brave and youthful Iowa chief. Attracted by the congenial 
charms of youth and beauty, in the varying scenes of their 
long and interesting journey, thus constantly associated, these 
children of the wilderness learned to love each other (if love 
is ever learned), and in conformity to their own peculiar and 
simple rites, were united in marriage. In the city of New 
York this young and handsome couple excited the most un- 
bounded admiration. The wild grace of their aboriginal 
costume, mingling with some of the peculiar fashions of the 
white race, the simplicity of their manners and the originality 
of their expressions, made them objects of curiosity and social 
interest. But the simple Indian maid languished amid the 
splendour of fashionable life. Accustomed to the freedom of 
her native forest, and the simple diet of the wigwam, she 
wilted like a mountain flower enclosed in the sultry atmosphere 
of a hot-house. Her constitution thus enfeebled, she soon 
became a victim to disease, and died, far from the home of 
her fathers. On the marble surface of the monument, 
the figure of her dusky bridegroom appears in bas-relief, 
mourning over this rose of the wilderness, thus untimely 

As you continue your wanderings, many a stately obelisk 
arrests the gaze, but you naturally look for some name that will 
touch the chords of remembrance, or that is associated in your 
mind with something dear to the heart or inspiring to the 
mind. Ah ! here is one — rising on a high bank in the sud- 
den bend of the tour. We are familiar with the name of 
Catlin (or at least we ought to be), the celebrated Indian 
painter, or rather painter of the Indian Grallery of Portraits, 
which has excited the admiration of the European world. He 
is not dead — he still lives, pursuing his career with all the 
enthusiasm of genius and all its confidence of success. But 
Clara, his gentle, lovely wife, rests in Greenwood's classic 


shades. She died in Paris, but was brought home to sleep in 
her native soil. We knew her well, and it was with a thrill 
of mingled delight and pain we saw her memorial among so 
many stranger graves. Yes ! strange as it may seem, there 
was an emotion of pleasure in gazing on that beauteous monu- 
ment, and in recalling in the chiselled features of the angel that 
appears to guard the shrine, the outlines of a fair, remembered 
face. Inserted in a head-stone of gray Parisian limestone is a 
tablet of dazzling whiteness. Upon this the angel form is 
carved, with outspread wings, holding the stylus in her hand, 
and supporting the tablet, on which she appears to have writ- 
ten these words — 

" Weep not for me, my friends, but strive through your 
only Redeemer to come to me." 

This sentence was extracted from the last letter she ever 
addressed to her friends, and is worthy to be engraven there. 

While lingering near this graceful shrine of female loveliness, 
we could not but compare the stillness and melancholy beauty 
of the scene with the one where we last beheld her. Her hus- 
band was exhibiting, with professional pride and enthusiasm, 
his magnificent picture-gallery, and exciting the most intense 
interest by his graphic description of Indian life and manners. 
She was behind the scenes, assisting him to arrange the por- 
traits, and to twist his wampum belt with aboriginal grace. 
After the public exhibition was over, we saw her, with a deer- 
skin, wrought with brilliant dyes, thrown around her shoul- 
ders, and some badges of Indian royalty on her brow. She 
seemed proud, even in sport, to share the trophies of her gifted 
artist husband. And here she lies — so still, so cold, that even 
the terrible war-whoop, which that night sounded in imitative 
vengeance in our ears, could never awaken her more. 

We pause before the tomb of Charlotte Candee, the most 
sumptuous and costly structure in the whole Cemetery. We 
have so often heard of this, that it seems like a familiar object 
when it first meets the eye. A more elaborate and exquisite 
piece of workmanship could scarcely be imagined, and if we 
were to judge of the depth and strength of the grief, by the 
costly tribute it has paid, mighty must have been the sorrow 
that embodied itself in this splendid mausoleum. It is, indeed, 
the expression of the most fervid parental love, bereaved of the 
sole object of its idolatry. The circumstances of this bereave- 
ment are so sad and awful, it will add interest to the monu- 
22 * 


ment to bring them before the minds of those who may, pei'- 
chance, be strangers to the mournful tragedy. 

Charlotte Candee was the only child of her parents, and if 
according testiinony may be believed, of remarkable accom- 
plishments, and rare moral excellence. She wrote and spoke, 
with accuracy and facility, the English, French, Spanish, Italian, 
and German, and had even acquired a competent knowledge of 
the Danish language. She excelled both in vocal and instru- 
mental music, and her taste and skill in drawing were equally 
admirable. To these brilliant acquirements, she united a dis- 
position of uncommon sweetness, a heart filled with pure and 
beautiful affections, and a spirit bearing the impress of its 
heavenly origin. This sweet disposition, pure heart, and 
heavenly spirit, diffused over her countenance an indescribable 
charm, and imparted to her manners that gentle courtesy, 
which is something than grace or *' beauty dearer.'^ She was 
in the flower of youth, at that charming age when the simpli- 
city of the child and the intelligence of the woman begin to 
meet and melt in harmony and grace. It was on her seven- 
teenth birthday that the sad event occurred, which gave birth 
to this magnificent demonstration of grief. At a festive enter- 
tainment, given in honour of this joyous era, she was a pre- 
siding star — alas! soon to set in a dark eclipse! On her 
return home, accompanied by her father and another young 
lady, he left her a few moments to attend her companion to 
her own door, — the driver in the mean time dropped the reins, 
and the horses suddenly started off, throwing the young girl 
from the carriage to the pavement, causing instantaneous 
death. It seems that she had a kind of presentiment of her 
doom, for she shrank, with strange reluctance, from the evening 
festival, and nothing but the consciousness that it was a birth- 
day fete, induced her to conquer her nameless misgivings 
Certainly the coming event did "cast its shadow before,'' 
if we may judge by several touching incidents prior to the 

In the portfolio which contains most of her drawings, there 
are two which excite peculiar interest. Every one who has 
read the life of Cromwell, must remember that awful, thrilling 
moment, when he gazed upon the shrouded and encoffiued form 
of the unfortunate Charles. She had sketched the figure of 
the great usurper, but when about to delineate the coffin, the 
pencil seems to have dropped from her trembling fingers, for 
below is written very faintly — " Je n'ai pu faire le cercueil— 


II me glace d'effroi.'^ I could not draw the coffin I It freezes 
me with terror. 

The day but one before her death, she again took up the 
pencil and completed the design — or rather gave the whole on 
another sheet. Tbe coffin was finished, and Cromwell was 
gazing sternly and sorrowfully on the face of his beheaded 
king. Below this sketch, these few faint pencilled lines were 
discovered after her death : ^' mort ! il faut apprendre 
t'envisager.^' Death ! I must learn to look thee in the face I 
Was not this prophetical of the doom that was even then roll- 
ing darkly behind her ? 

There is another interesting circumstance connected with 
this monument. A beloved aunt expired a few months pre- 
vious to her own death, and she exercised her remarkable 
taste in drawing, in designing a mausoleum in all the refine- 
ment of taste and the lavishness of affection. This beloved 
relative sleeps by her side, protected by the same monumental 
temple. It is said that a relative in France bequeathed a 
legacy to this unfortunate young girl, which the parents 
received after death. This bequest of thirty -five thousand 
dollars, they have appropriated to the decoration of the spot 
hallowed by her remains, — to the composition of this poem 
of the aflPections, this elegy of the heart, written in enduring 

No. IL 

We conducted you to the tomb of Charlotte Candee. Bo 
you feel sufficient interest in her eafly doom, to linger near 
the spot, and examine at your leisure its exquisite workman- 
ship and symbolical decorations ? 

This monument rises on a graceful mound, between three 
gently undulating hills, where Glreenbough Avenue intersects 
the Tour. Six rows of marble steps entirely surround an ob- 
long octagonal platform, whose granite slab forms the base of 
the magnificent temple of Death. There are two niches. The 
outer one formed with panels, ornamented with symbolic 
flowers, fleurs-de-lys, significant of her French extraction, and 
escutcheons^ bearing her alliterative cipher, ^^C. C." The 


other is formed by two pilasters^ — their bases and capitals 
being adorned with roses, lilies and acanthus leaves. All these 
decorations constitute a splendid frame for the statue of the 
young girl, which stands in the alcove. It represents her as 
sinking under the burden of her destiny. Clouds are hover- 
ing over her head, ready to wrap her, as with a mantle, and a 
radiant star, piercing through their shade, directs the thoughts 
to the immortality of which it is the emblem. 

We have said before that she expired on her seventeenth 
birth-day. This number, made sacred by her death, is pre- 
served in all the emblems which surround her ashes. Seven- 
teen marble vases are placed at regular intervals around the 
tomb. In every vase there are seventeen flowers. Seventeen 
rose-buds form the cipher of her name, which is surmounted 
by a crown composed of seventeen stars. On each side of the 
exterior niche rise two buttresses of the height of seventeen 
feet above the granite stylobate. 

Upon either side of the platform are two lofty pedestals of 
granite, each supporting a figure with uplifted brow and prayer- 
ful eyes, — representing angels with outspread wings, guarding 
the sacred dust of innocence and youth, or waiting to bear the 
early-enfranchised spirit to its native heaven. It would be 
impossible to go into a minute detail of all the minor adorn- 
ments of this tomb. We gaze upon it with admiration, as a 
costly work of art — with sympathy, as the memorial of paren- 
tal love — with pity, as the last home of one young, lovely and 
beloved. But the pure taste turns sated from such prodigality 
of ornament and exuberance of expense, and rests upon some 
simple obelisk or broken shaft, as the eye, dazzled with a gor- 
geous display of colours, reposes on the soft and refreshing 
green. The moral sense is pained by the useless expenditure 
of a liberal leg&cj. In a few years, the disregarding elements 
will deface this spotless - marble, these Corinthian ornaments 
will crumble away beneath the iron fingers of Time, and these 
cold and mocking flowers mingle with the ashes of their frail 
and lovely prototypes. We sigh at the thought of the coming 
ruin, and wish a grief so sacred had received a more enduring 
monument, — some asylum for orphan innocence or suffering 
indigence, whose blessings would have embalmed her memory, 
whose prayers hallowed the place of her repose. 

There is a beautiful monument on Battle Hill, near High- 
land Avenue, erected to the memory of two brothers, who, 
^'lovely in their lives, in death were not divided.^' George 


and Albert Swan, natiVes of the West, and inheritors of ita 
glowing energy and nob\e independence of character. G-eorge, 
the elder, on his way toHhe University of Cambridge, Massa- 
chusetts, was lost in the ill-fated Lexington, on that disastrous 
night when a sudden wave of 'woe drowned so many hearts in 
mourning. He went down into the dark water, in all the 
bright hopes of youth and aspirations of manhood, like a silver 
arrow shooting across a midnight sky, leaving no trace on the 
darkness. Albert, the younger, started for the same classic 
shades, but a deeper shade was waiting to envelope him. Ar- 
rived at New York, he was arrested by sudden disease, where 
he languished and died. A carved and massy base supports 
two graceful fluted columns, which are twined together with a 
marble garland of wreathing blossoms, a beautiful emblem of 
the fraternal love which bound them in life and seems still to 
unite them in death. 

Do you see that stately obelisk, rising from the loftiest crown 
of Battle Hill, one of the most elevated positions in the Ceme- 
try, flashing its sun-silvered summit towards the Bay, where 
the stately vessel and gallant boat are gliding, and the anchored 
ship is resting, with its sails furled and its ropes dangling 
around the mast ? 

It is the Pilot's monument — a beacon star, to which tiis 
wrecking mariners may turn their straining eyes, in the hope 
that another Freeborn, with generous heart and dauntless 
spirit, may wrestle with the elements in their behalf and en- 
deavour to save them from a watery grave. The Pilots of New 
York reared this monumental structure in memory of Thomas 
Freeborn, a brave and noble comrade, who perished by the 
wreck of the John Minturn, which he had undertaken to con- 
duct into port. Within sight of the Jersey shore, where she 
was driven by a tremendous gale — within sight and hail of a 
multitude powerless to shield it from the fury of the storm — 
the gallant bark went down. Chilled by the wet, benumbed 
by the cold, almost all on board perished before the final 

The hardy and self forgetting Pilot stood, in this hour of 
mortal agony, in the midst of the blinding sleet and icy spray, 
a sheet anchor, round which feebler frames and weaker spirits 
clung. There he stood in his shirt sleeves, on which the 
sleet had hung its glittering but deadly wreathes, covering 
with his outer garments the shrinking, shivering, expiring, 
female forms he sought to save by the sacrifice of his own 

'i^ i 


life. But though his "home was on the mountain wave, 
his path upon the deep" — fearless and brave though he was — 
he could not cope with the strength of ocean's God. 

*' The billows raged, 
The Pilot's art was vain — 

O'er the tall mast the circling surges closed, 
The vessel plunged within a watery plain." 

Hero of the ocean ! well dost thou merit this memorial of 
gratitude and admiration. When thy bark was tossing upon 
the waves of Jordan, a heavenly Pilot was at the helm, steer- 
ing thee to the haven of everlasting repose. Thou art safe 
from the tempests of life, — no stormy winds sweep over the 
sea of glass that laves the shores of the eternal land. Peace 
to thee, gallant spirit ! a crown for thee, warrior of the deep ! 

The monument is an embodiment of moral and emblematic 
ideas. From a massive base there rises a square sarcophagus, 
on which a ship's capstan is resting, with the cable which is 
wrapped in winding coils around it, rent in twain. A broken 
mist rises from the capstan. Hope, leaning on her anchor, 
points to the blue and smiling skies. On the front of the 
sarcophagus, the ocean, lashed into billows, bearing on its 
bosom a shattered and sinking vessel, is represented in bas- 

It is interesting to reflect, that the soil now hallowed by the 
ashes of the hero, the statesman, and the scholar, whose graves 
are clustering around us — this spot, so peaceful, so solemn, 
was once a battle-ground. In the valley, which extends from 
the spot we have just indicated northwestwardly to the Bay, 
the British forces under G-eneral Grant, and those of the 
Americans commanded by Lord Stirling, first came in contact 
on the 26th of August, 1776. Many a gallant soldier then 
moistened with his blood the green sward which pillowed his 
dying head and enriched the earth with the costliest libation 
that ever was poured at the altar of liberty. No marble shaft 
pointing to heaven commemorates flieir fate, but they have a 
monument in every American heart, round which the garland 
of memory blooms with undying verdure. 

Do you observe that pyramidal, magnificent column towering 
near Tulip Hill ? It is grand ! it is majestic ! worthy to be 
the representative of the mighty element, whose power caused 
its elevation. It is the Firemen's monument, and a statue of 
one of these daring sons of fire surmounts the massy pillar, 


and looks down on ocean, hill, and plain. One arm encircles 
a child, just rescued from the flames, still curling behind it, — 
his right hand grasps a trumpet. Around him, the swinging 
engine-lantern, the 'wreath-crowned cap, the hook and ladder, 
may all be seen, — implements of relief, which the martyrs to 
humanity, who slumber below, will never more make sub- 
servient to their use. The Engineers of the New York Fire 
Department erected this mausoleum to the memory of several 
of their companions who perished in the flames, from which 
they were endeavouring to rescue their fellow beings. Earth 
hath its part, the sea hath its part, the fire hath its part — but 
the earth, the sea, and the fire, will one day give up their dead, 
and death and time be no more. 

We would like to pause by every enclosure which the hand 
of aflTection has guarded, by every memorial which love, or 
memory, or gratitude has reared ; but in this vast congregation 
of tombs — this cold and still, but eloquent and beautiful 
marble band, assembled on the green battle-ground of death, 
we can only select a few as companions and friends. There 
is a large space at the right of the entrance appropriated to 
the graves of the unambitious and lowly. These oblong hil- 
locks, so green and symmetrical, with just the narrowest path 
between, seemed to me the footprints of death left on the 
heaving earth. Some simple and afi"ecting memorials of love 
marked these velvet-covered beds of clay. A kneeling angel 
here — an innocent lamb there. On one side a dove with 
spreading pinions — on the other a sleeping cherub — all making 
the place of graves beautiful to the eye and touching to the 

How lovely Is the morning ! A few white, fleecy clouds 
are floating near the horizon, so softly, slowly, that even in 
their very motion there is rest. Blue and radiant as the 
heavens above, the broad, glorious Bay stretches yonder its 
voluminous waters, glassing the Empire City in its sparkling 
mirror. Wandering in this Paradise of the Dead, with its 
marble spires, heaving upwards their symbolic crowns — its 
luxuriant shrubbery, odoriferous flowers, silver lakes, weeping 
willows, softly murmuring fountains, melodious birds, and 
sweetly solemn shades — we feel oppressed by the deep loveli- 
ness, the sublime quietude of the scene, and sigh under the 
burden of unutterable thoughts. It seems sacrilege to speak 
where the genius of everlasting silence appears to have lifted 
up its marble throne. A gentle wind stirs the funereal foliage, 


and wafts tlie. fragrance of the grave-flowers in incense clouds 
over the dead. We imagine we can hear the faint rustling of 
invisible wings, mingling with the voice of the fountains and 
the sighs of the gale. We even fancy, as we look upward, 
that we can see the silver glimmer of angel wings above the 
white gliding vapours. The spirits of the dead may be hover- 
ing near, and it seems that the happiness of Heaven itself 
might be enhanced by the consciousness of the embalming 
memories of earth. 

We are about to leave these quiet, winding paths, for the 
crowded thoroughfares of the great city ; but, before the gates 
are closed, let us look around at that massy tomb on the right. 
It is called the Reception Tomb, where the bodies of strangers 
are deposited till their distant friends can claim their ashes 
and bear them to kindred dust. An incident was related to 
us, connected with this vault, which was thrillingly awful : 

A gentleman brought his bride to this fashionable resort of 
the Metropolitans. They wandered together through its charm- 
ing avenues and leafy bowers, and at length passed by the 
reception-tomb, whose marble doors were unfortunately open, 
— a stranger having just been deposited there. They stood on 
the threshold, and looked, with mingled curiosity and dread, 
into its dark and gloomy apartments. Laying his hand lightly 
on her shoulder, he threatened sportively to enclose her there, 
and thus rid himself of the new-made shackles that bound him. 
With childish terror, she sprang from him, caught hold of the 
door, which had a spring-lock, and which, obeying the impulse 
she had unconsciously given it, closed suddenly upon her, pre- 
cipitating her into the vault where the coffined dead were laid. 
We dare not follow her there. By a strange fatality, the key 
had been carried away by a gentleman who left that morning 
for New York. It was hours before he was overtaken, or she 
liberated from her awful prison-house. What were the reflec- 
tions of her husband during this interval may be imagined ; 
but one who could indulge in a light jest on such solemn 
ground, and in the presence of such dread mementoes as that 
open tomb disclosed, could not have the depth of feeling neces- 
sary for the fulness of suffering. She was found as pallid and 
nearly as insensible as her ghastly companions ; and a long 
and dangerous illness wJis the result of this act of conjugal 
levity on the threshold of the subterranean mansion of death. 
Whether she forgave her husband for her premature interment, 


we do not know ; but we should think the cold atmosphere of 
mortality must have at least chilled the warmth of wedded love. 

Farewell, ye beautiful and solemn shades ! We look back 
once more upon your sun-gilt monuments with glistening eyes. 
We almost envy your tranquil inmates, silent city of the dead ! 
We shrink from returning to the noise and tumult of the world, 
the restlessness and strife of human passion. Death, instead of 
seeming the King of Terrors, wears the guise of an angel of 
light. We think it would be sweet to lie down in those green 
beds, near those still waters and flowering shrubs, after having 
fathomed the great mystery of life. We would wish no proud 
monument to mark the spot to the stranger's eye, — no pompous 
epitaph or studied elegy, mockeries of the grief that passeth 
show. Sufficient for us if some hearts that loved us in life 
should throb with tenderer remembrances at the mention of 
our name ; — if some pure drops, not born of the earth-vapours, 
should mingle with the twilight dews that glittered on our 
grave. We would not presumptuously ask to be remembered 
by the world, — that wide wilderness, where the single leaf falls 
unregarded to the ground ; — but we would address to the few 
in whose memory friendship is immortal, the words of one 
whose lips are now closed with the hermetic seal of death : 

" Oh ! mes amis, rappelez-vous quelquefois mes vers ) mon 
ame y est empreinte," 

Beautifully has Felicia Hemans breathed forth her yearnings 
for remembrance in the hearts of her friends. Do not such 
strains as these find a world-wide echo ? 

"When -will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 
When will ye think of me ? 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye, 
At the sound of some olden melody, — 
When ye heer the voice of a mountain stream, — 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream, — 
Then let it be. 

" Thus let my memory be with you, friends, 
Thus ever think of me ; 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone, — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, — 
As of a wanderer whose home is found, — 
So let it be." 



The question respecting the relative intellectual powers of 
men and women, is one which has been often agitated, but 
never fully resolved. Nor can it be, till the laws which bind 
society together are changed, and both sexes are subject to the 
same mental discipline. In all ages of the world, there have 
been instances of women, whose expansive minds have burst 
through the shackles which prejudice and education have 
bound around them, and rising above the standard of their 
sex, have almost shamed by their rapid progress in knowledge, 
the slower attainments of man. These, however, are only lu- 
minous points, rendered more dazzling from the surrounding 
dimness. We have never read of a nation of women, tran- 
scending or equalling the masculine sex in intellectual vigour, 
for the general principles of education have never allowed this 
equality, and the first rules impressed on the female mind are 
those which bind it to a more limited and peculiar sphere. 

Man is taught from his early boyhood, that he is the lord 
of creation, formed to rule and comma-ndjinot by the exertion 
of brutal force, but by the powers of a godlike mind. The 
mighty principle of ambition is awakened within him. The 
great models of ancient days are placed before him. An un- 
dying thirst for fame, an unquenchable fire is lighted up in 
his breast. His ej'e waxes dim over the classic page, his cheek 
grows pale over the midnight lamp. Yet his spirit faints 
not. The dews of Castaly refresh his feverish lips, the gales 
that are wafted from the groves of Academus fan his burning 
brow. He comes forth from the shades of his closet, rich in 
the love of other days, to take his station amid the high places 
of the earth. 

(266) . 


He becomes the healer of disease, and day and night he is 
called upon to mitigate the ills of suffering humanity, and to 
arrest the mission of the Angel of Death. 

He is the avenger of wrong, and while guilt trembles as 
the breath of his eloquence sweeps over a listening throng, in- 
nocence lifts her fair brow and blesses the vindicator of her 
injured rights. 

He is the minister of Almighty God : 

' Through him the violated law speaks out its thunders, 
And through him, in strains as sweet as angels use, 
The gospel whispers peace." 

Surely, the mind engaged in such high pursuits, fixed on 
such noble aims, must have its best and greatest powers called 
into constant and powerful exercise. It has not time to in- 
dulge in vanity, or frivolity, or inglorious weakness. Its 
sphere is too vast, its objects too multiplied, its duties too 
lofty and too commanding. 

But what are too often the teachings of woman, from the 
cradle of infancy to the bridal altar ? What motives are pre- 
sented as the springs of her actions, what goal pointed out as 
the boundary of her ambition ? Is she not taught to shine 
and glitter, during the ephemeral season of youth and beauty 
— to <ievote her irredeemable time to the acquisition of the 
lightest accomplishments — to the costly adornment of her 
person — as if her frame were immortal rather than her mind, 
her body imperishable instead of her soul ? Is she not educated 
to consider the admiration of the other sex as the Alpha and 
Omega of her existence, and that it is best obtained by the 
possession of those airy graces, which fit her for the halls of 
fashion, instead of the palaces of Eternity.? 

" If you chance to have any mental superiority," says a 
father, addressing his daughters, in a work devoted to the 
great principles of education, " be careful to conceal it from 
the other sex, for man seldom forgives the intellectual superi- 
ority of woman." 

^' The heart," says a celebrated writer, " is the empire of 
woman — to man belongs the kingdom of the mind." 

Thus, so far from having the high faculties of her soul called 
into exercise, like man, she is even told to hold down the aspi- 
rations of her intellect, which would spurn the bondage of 
vanity and folly, rather than repel and alienate the being whom 
she was created to charm. With such a different system of 

268 .^^. THE SEX OP THE SOUL. 

education, it is impossible to measure out the exact quantum 
of mind which belongs by the right of nature to either sex. 
It is in vain to bring it down to the strict rules of mathema- 
tical science. Mind, we verily believe, is of no sex. It is 
the inspiration of the Almighty, the burning breath of incar- 
nate Deity. 

Mind is strengthened by use. The finest steel wears away 
in time, under the hand of the artist, but mind is indestruct- 
ible and defies the laws that govern material substances. It 
is inexhaustible. The more you draw from the fountain, the 
deeper and purer are the waters. Within its loiuest deep^ 
there is a deep still lower, which no sounding line of thought 
has ever fathomed. It is elastic, expansive, like the air we 
breathe. Confine it, in too narrow a compass, it loses its life- 
giving, life-sustaining principle. Remove the pressure, it 
rises above the loftiest mountains, and flies beyond the farthest 

Is not the mind of woman bounded by education, and com- 
pressed by circumstances ? Let her overstep these limits, and 
see of what she is capable. 

Catharine of Russia, the second imperial Catharine, whose 
overmastering ambition crushed every obstacle that opposed 
her path to absolute dominion, completed a work, which even 
Peter the Great had omitted in the scale of his mighty opera- 
tions. It was a woman's hand which formed and presented a 
code of laws for the government of that immense Empire — 
laws celebrated for their wisdom and justice, and preserved in 
a golden .vase, in the Imperial Academy at Petersburgh. 
While her weak, degraded husband remained plunged in in- 
glorious excesses, this modern Semiramis held the reins of 
government with a*firm, unshrinking hand, and devoted all 
her energies to her own aggrandizement and the glory of the 
nation. We speak not of the crimes that blackened, the shame" 
that crimsoned, her character. The question is the intellectual 
power, not the moral purity of the sex : to the last, the very 
name of Catharine affixed a stain, which all the icy waters of 
the northern seas could never efiace. 

Woman was not born to be a warrior. But when has manly 
valour wrought more wonderous deeds, than were achieved by 
Boadicea, Queen of ancient Britain ? Whether we see her 
standing on an elevated ground, in full view of her oppressed 
subjects, animating them by prospects of victory and ven- 
geance^ leaning on her spear, her long hair streaming like a 


war banner on the gale^ or driving her triumphal chariot over 
the bodies of the slain^ we recognise the same warrior spirit, 
that directs the whirlwind and rules the storm of destiny. 

Nature never formed woman for the rude scenes of political 
strife, but where in the bloody records of the French Revolu- 
tion is there a name more illustrious than the undaunted 
Roland, who stood boldly at her husband^s side, avowing and 
sustaining his sentiments at the hazard of her life, and when 
that life was forfeited, willingly poured out her blood at the 
shrine of that Liberty where she had worshipped with more 
than Eastern idolatry ? « 

Woman was not formed to be the defender of the strong, 
yet how often has her bosom been the shield of him, who is 
called her guardian and her lord ? The forests of America are 
hallowed by the memory of Pocohontas, who sheltered in her 
arms the gallant Smith, and confronted the death-blow that 
was destined to lay him low. 

The mind of woman is thought incapable of grasping the 
mighty volnme of the abstract sciences. Among those who 
miglit be cited as illustrious contradictions to this remark, the 
name of Grabrielle de Chatelet is presented to the memory. 
She was the fellow-student of Voltaire, and travelled with him 
through the sublime mazes of philosophy, " unwound the 
eternal dances of the sky," and wrote her name among the 
stars, in characters of light, by the side of a Newton and a 
Leibuitz. She studied the works of Newton, which are written 
in Latin, " and the study of an abstract science in a dead 
language,'^ says her biographer, "requires no common powers 
of mind.^^ 

We have brought forward these few examples to prove the 
mental capabilities of woman, but we would not alter the 
course marked out by Him, who directs the planets in their 
brilliant paths, and preserves the eternal harmony of the spheres. 
" There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the 
moon,'' but they are both glorious, and both derive their glory 
from the exhaustless fountain of uncreated light. Were wo- 
man to leave her own, for man's more sun-like sphere, what 
account can she render of her own neglected duties, her own 
deserted orbit ? It is her hand which God appointed to trace 
the first characters on man's unwritten mind, and woe be to 
her, if there be imprinted there, aught that " is not lovely, 
venerable, or of good report," aught that angels may not read, 
or the eye of Infinite Purity survey. 


The pilgrim, weary and panting beneath the rays of a sultry 
sun, seats himself under the ^hade of a majestic oak and re-' 
joices in the shelter of its spreading branches, emblem of the 
strength of man. The soft gale refreshes his fervid brow, and 
he drinks of the dew from the flower-cup that blooms protected 
by that mighty tree. The gale and the dew are emblems of 
the gentleness and tenderness of looman. Yet in that gale 
and dew are the elements of the tempest and the ocean, of 
grandeur and power. But the strong wind and the beating 
wave would oppress and endanger the weary pilgrim^, instead 
of refreshing and restoring him. 

When the undeluged earth lay cold and still dripping from 
its awful baptism, God sent forth a wind to dry its surface and 
prepare it for a new vegetation. Grod sends forth his own 
missionaries, and blessed are those who perform the work al- 
lotted them by the Omniscient Taskmaster. The pilgrim rises 
and pursues his solitary way, blessing God for the shadow of 
the mighty oak, for the coolness of the gale and the sweet 
falling of the dew. They all the missionaries of Heaven. 

But the robber lurks in the solitary way, and the hand of 
violence is lifted against his life. The arm of the strong and 
the brave comes between him and destruction, and the wounded 
but protected is borne to the home of his preserver. There 
the gentle hand of woman binds up his wounds, her mild 
voice whispers comfort in his ear, and her soft steps linger 
around his couch. 

" Oh ! how beautiful," exclaims the pilgrim, " is the arrange- 
ment of the works of Providence. The same power that 
spread out the shadowing branches of the forest tree, gave to 
man the arm of strength to strike down the oppressor in his 
pride; and the same mercy that filled with dew the chalice of 
the forest flower, created woman with the pitying soul and 
the healing hand, to bind up the wounds of sorrow and of 
sin, and to smooth the path of the way-faring man through 
the wilderness of life." 

Is not_ the way-faring man the emblem of him who is going 
on in his pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world, and 
may we not exclaim with him — '^ Oh ! how beautiful and har- 
monious is the arrangement of the works of Providence ?" 


Letter I. 

Steabier Wtnnton-, April 10, 1852. 

The bell is rung ; the plunging, heavy sound of the engine 
is heard in the water; the boat begins to thrill and shiver 
like the hearts of parting friends, then, gliding out into the 
river, dashes the spray from its paddle-wheels; white hand- 
kerchiefs are seen waving from the shore; the sunbeams are 
reflected from faces turning with farewell glances toward the 
receding boat; then the sunbeams fade, the shadow steals 
over them, and the white gleam of the waving handkerchiefs 
disappears, like the wing of a bird, cutting the sky. Farewell 
to Columbus, Queen of the rushing Chattahoochee,— home of 
warm, generous hearts, of true and noble spirits. Strange 
paradox I we are leaving thee behind us, and yet bearing thee 
away with us, an ever present and beloved companion. Thou 
mayst be invisible to others, but thy image will ever rise before 
our mental vision. 

With immortality of memory fraught, 
Space cannot fetter the unshackled will ; 
High over forest, river, valley, still 

Shall soar the free, untiring wings of thought. 

Beautiful are the banks of the Chattahoochee, clothed in 
their vernal garniture. The high, gray bluffs, crowned with 
emerald diadems, with mantles of vine-work sweeping in the 
breeze, — the luxuriant clusters of ivy, giving here and there 
a bright, delicate glow to the dark green shrubbery, — the 
scarlet woodbine, twining its blossoms of fire round the gray 
old trunk of some blasted tree, — all flashed on the eye, as we 
hurried along, making us wish we had arms of India-rubber, 



that they might be stretched to the shore, and gather the wild 
flowers that greeted us so lovingly with their fragrant breath. 
The magnolia, fair queen of blossom trees, peeped through the 
dense foliage, with its waxen white petcils, and loaded the 
river-breeze with its rich, oppressive odours. 

At night, when the boat stopped for a freightage of cotton, 
we sat on the boiler deck, and watched the massy bales as 
they came tumbling down the steep bank, like so many huge 
elephants without their trunks. The scene was wild and pic- 
turesque. A lantern of light-wood, fastened by a rod to the 
side of the boat, but appearing as if suspended from the over- 
hanging pine boughs, threw a red, diffusive glare on the black 
faces and scarlet-red jackets of the negroes, who were escorting 
the cotton elephants down the banks, over the planks, and into 
the vessel, with a roll and a bound that made it pulsate and 
quake to its heart's core. It was astonishing to see with what 
mathematical precision all this was done, in the midst of the 
greatest apparent recklessness of motion, and disregard of dis- 
tance and directness. Every bale leaped over the planks and 
sprang into its appointed place, as if anxious to make way for 
its successor, which was already tearing through the low boughs 
and raking over th« ground, with another and another just 
above it. It was not till we missed the lurid reflection of the 
torch-light on the water, that we joined the party on the stern-' 
deck, where sweet female voices, accompanied by the soft thrill 
of the guitar, floated over the dark river, and echoed from the 
bluffs, now scarcely discoverable through the moonless night. 
An occasional star flashed through the black smoke-wreath 
coiling overhead, as if listening to the music warbling below. 

Nothing can be more beautiful than the little cascades which 
gush out from the rocky bluffs so suddenly and so mirthfully, 
like joyous children rushing to see a pageant sweeping by. 
There is one called the Roaring Spring, that, like a church 
choir, sings behind a curtain. The curtain is made of green 
leaves, all lace-work; and the water-fall glances its silver- 
bright eyes at the traveller, as it sings away, and the words of 
its song have a chorus that sounds like 

"Cheerily 0, cheerily 0!" 

Certainly, the party on board was not composed of ice or 
stone, incapable of perceiving or appreciating the beauties of 
nature. At every cascade that bounded forward to look at us, 
every cluster of wild flowers that sent out its perfume on the 


gale, every wild duck that skimmed over the water, or dived 
sportively beneath it, ejaculations of admiration would pass 
from lip to lip, and glances of rapture flash from eye to eye. 
The gallant captain, too, who knows by heart every inch of 
Chattahoochee's banks, would not suffer any object of interest 
to pass without directing to it the attention of the admiring 
traveller. We wish we could remember the Indian names he 
told us, for they were so sweet and musical. 

^Ye passed one place, near Ochesee, which looked like 
storied ground. It seemed to be an Indian mound, on which 
were the ruins of an old hut, and a grave. But it was the 
grave of a white man, once the solitary dweller of that ruined 
hut. There was a wild-rose bush clambering round the old 
frame-work, casting a gleam of bloom and beauty on its deso- 
lation. That grave ! how sad and lone it looked by the way- 
side ! how mournfully the water gurgled against the burial- 
mound ! and how imagination wrote the history of the hermit 
dead ! Perhaps all romance would die away in the presence 
of reality, as it too often does. 

The last bluff that beautifies the banks before you reach the 
Bay is called the Old Woman's Bluff: — why, it is difficult to 
imagine, for it is very beautiful and majestic. No ! we are 
mistaken; the beautiful and majestic bluff is named Alum 
Bluff, and the one bearing the venerable feminine appellation 
is a low, insignificant kind of ledge, that goes shuffling into 
the level shore. As the shore flattens, the river widens, till 
it gradually swells into the beautiful glassy bay on which 
Apalachicola stands. 

There is nothing yi the appearance of the town to gratify 
the eye of the stranger. It never could have possessed much 
beauty; and th« terrible gale of last August has given it a 
worn and somewhat dilapidated appearance. But as you walk 
into the town, and see some of the neat and tasteful habitations, 
and continue your course on the neat walk, made of planks, 
raised above the white, sparkling sand along the beach, catch- 
ing glimpses all the time of the blue, serene water, the charm 
of repose is on you, and you forget the dry, business look 
which first greeted you. The hospitality and refinement of 
the Apalachicolians are proverbial; and, short as was our 
stay, we had abundant opportunity of proving the justice of 
the reputation. One might have imagined the little cabin of 
our boat a fashionable drawing-room, from the elegant guests 
that assembled there. 


The next day, several young ladies and gentlemen from the 
Bay accompanied our party to East Pass, distant about thirty 
miles, where the British vessels lie at anchor, ready to dis- 
charge their freight. It was a bright, blue, cloudless morning; 
and a waveless calm slept upon the face of the waters. We, 
who^ had anticipated being tossed on the foaming billows, as 
we approached the great Gulf, were sadly disappointed at the 
deep tranquillity "of the sea. We wanted to /eel the majesty 
of the sea-green element. We wanted to /eel the union of 
great strength with sublime beauty. But the sea-winds lay 
with their banners furled, and the Bay smiled in one broad, 
dazzling pomp of sunlight. A gay, happy party filled a barge, 
and departed for a sandy island, that looked, in the distance, 
like glistening silver, — the Island of St. John, — washed by 
the mingling waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the Bay of 
Apalachicola. But alas ! for those who were foolish enough 
to be made sick by gazing on the unrippling surface of the 
deep ; they were forced to follow with wistful eyes the grace- 
fully-receding boat through the green jalousies of their state- 
room, consoling themselves with the thought that some kind 
voice might whisper to the listening ear, '^ I wish they were 

Away, away, like a thing of life, the little boat flew over 
the smooth, glassy water, and the blue veils began to flutter, 
and a soft yet exhilarating breeze curled the azure face of the 
lower heaven. It was pleasant to hear the party, after their 
return, tell of their walk on the silver sands of the beach, of 
the stately, black pelicans, that looked so grand and Byroniany 
and the charming conversations that waked the echoes of the 
lonely isle. 

In our next letter, we will endeavour to describe the crew 
of the good ship Portland, and how they charmed us with 
their jovial songs, while heaving their cargo into our rocking 

Letter II. 

QuiNCY, April 16, 1852. 
Seated on the boiler-deck, and feeling the exhilarating 
influence of the rising sea-breeze, we watched the jolly tars 


of the Portland, while they transferred the sacks of salt with 
which the ship was freighted to the charge of the Wjnnton. 
One would imagine this must be a very uninteresting process, 
but music can lend enchantment to any scene — and then it 
was performed with real grace and spirit. There was one 
man who seemed to direct the operations, short in stature, 
with a broad, fat, good-natured face, who occupied a central 
position, and pulled a rope with might and main. He wore 
a white hat, and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his 
elbows, showing scarlet flannel undersleeves. The sailors, by 
two and two, departing from him, their common centre, tugged 
at their ropes, siuging some wild melody with growing spirit, 
and by the time they had reached the end of their rope, a 
huge bag of salt emerged from the hull of the ship, then was 
swung by one man to receive a strong impulse from another, 
to pass from him to another, who stood on the very verge of 
the vessel, and unhooking the sack from the noose that en- 
circled it, gave it a toss on the inclined plane, on which it slid 
down into the boat. This continued for hours, and all the 
time they kept up their wild minstrelsy, and all the time we 
gazed and listened with unabated interest, while the fresh 
breeze curled the water and blew inspiringly round us. As the 
boat departed, the sailors gave three loud, hearty cheers, to 
which waving handkerchiefs responded, and it was not long 
before Apalachicola appeared in sight, illuminated by the 
cloudless rays of the setting sun. 

Another delightful evening there, and Jwmeicard hound, 
the Wynnton went on its course rejoicing. The next morn- 
ing there were clouds and heavy falling rains, accompanied 
by the deep bass of the thunder and the vivid flash of the 
lightning. But bright and clear was the social spirit within, 
and music, poetry, and sentiment gave wings to passing hours. 
We stopped at Ochesee, in " thunder, lightning, and in rain.^' 
Ah ! when " shall we all meet again V we silently asked, as, 
after bidding adieu to the delightful party which had accom- 
panied us on our loinding way^ we climbed up the steep, wet 
banks, not forgetting the magnolias and wild flowers which 
gallant hands had gathered from the fragrant shores, crossed 
a broad, grassy plain, and, ascending a long flight of steps in 
front of Mr. G-.'s mansion, looked back towards the friends 
whose figures still lingered on deck, and whose countenances 
beamed through the clouds and rain, with that sunsLine of 
the soul, brighter than the solar rays. We looked till the 


"black smoke no longer darkened the sky — the foaming wake 
no longer divided the water. 

There is hut one house at the Ochesee Landing, owned and 
occupied by Mr. Gr. — one of the most industrious, energetic, 
and thriving planters of Florida. The dwelling-house is lofty 
— raised so as to avoid the danger arising from an overflow- 
ing river — and its white walls look down commandingly on 
the beautiful water-view in front. The negro cabins are also 
white, as well as a noble gin-house on the right hand. A 
rich, grassy-green carpet covers a smooth lawn, stretching 
down to the river and spreading out on either side of the 
building. But the glory of the place consists of the grand 
old live-oaks, that stand side by side, gigantic twins, throwing 
their mighty shadows far and wide, and extending towards 
each other their hundred branching arms. What a history 
might be read in those majestic trees ! Unchanging as the 
ocean in their perennial verdure, they have witnessed ten 
thousand mutations, themselves unchanged, and may witness 
ten thousand more. 

Hail, propliets of nature — hail, beacons of time — 
Proud kings of the forest, ye're reigning sublime, 

'Mid beauty, luxuriance, and bloom ; 
The glories of nature have fled since your birth — 
The mighty been swept from the face of the earth 

And the sun of the conqueror gone down. 

But that Power, to whom nature and empires have bowed, 
Who has robbed of their glory the mighty and proud, 

Will prostrate your grandeur in dust ; 
That power, who the changes of nature controls — 
Who can stay the dark ocean of time as it rolls — 

Eternal, Almighty, and Just. 

As the ferry-boat at Aspalaga was out of order, we were 
compelled to cross at Chattahoochee, adding about thirteen 
miles to the distance between Ochesee and Quincy. Nothing 
can be more gorgeously beautiful than the scenery on the 
banks of the river which we followed for several miles. The 
foliage of the trees was so rich and luxuriant ; such wild, 
wanton vines clambered round the trunks ; the swamp-flowers 
bloomed with such superabundant life and fragrance ; and 
then the bright, yellow weed, that made such a golden carpet 
for the trees, — and the river rolling and glistening, and softly 
murmuring along one side, with its sweet, glad smile of almost 


human loveliness ; oli I it was magnificent — charming, — and, 
to crown the whole, just over a gate which opened into a rich 
plantation, two lofty trees, bending down, as if burdened by 
their weight of leaves, interlaced their branches^ and formed 
a graceful and triumphal arch overhead. 

Near the ferry at Chattahoochee is the confluence of the 
Chattahoochee and the Flint, and you can plainly distinguish 
the darker, clearer waters of the latter, as they mingle with 
the more turbid waves of tbe former. After crossing the 
river, the ride through the pine woods is lonely and monoto- 
nous, only at long intervals interrupted by signs of human 
inhabitancy. At every step the ruins of the tremendous 
August gale are visible. Les cadavres des arhres, as Chateau- 
briand calls them — corpses "of trees, of gigantic pine trees, lie 
piled upon each other, like fallen heroes on a battle plain — 
and the road is constantly making zigzag freaks, to avoid 
desecrating these forest remains. 

Just as the twilight shadows were beginning to steal over 
the woods, we entered the' beautiful and oak-embowered town 
of Quincy. We had been told that the summer storm had 
made fearful ravages here, but in the dense oaken groves and 
among the magnificent shade trees which adorn and embosom 
the place, we look in vain for the foot-prints of the angel of 
the whirlwind. We can see, however, many proofs of its 
visitation. Under the window by which we are seated, there 
is an orange tree nearly twenty feet in height. The topmost 
branches are all blighted and leafless ; only the lower boughs 
retain their vitality. All the orange trees here are blasted 
in their bloom, and the cultivation of years destroyed. 



The Best Illustrated Works at 50 Cents a Volume. 


Library of Humorous American Works, 

With Illustrations by Darley. 

Price 50 Cents. (Complete.) 



Anecdotal Recollections 





Early Scenes — Wanderings in the West — 
Cincinnati in Early Life— "One Man in his 
Time pla}'s many Parts" — Expedient to gain 
a Livelihood — Early Days of Edwin Forrest— 
The Manager in Distress — Pittsburgh Thea- 
tricals — Philadelphia Gardens in 1824 — The 
Old Chatham Theatre — Star-gazing in New 
York — Concerts in New Jersey — Getting thro' 
a Winter— Strolling in Canada— The Murder- 
ous Alleghaniaus — Dawning of the Drama in 
Lewistown — Floating down the Stream — The- 
atricals in Kentucky — Anecdotal Kecollec- 
tions since 1827 — A Theatrical Dentist — The 
Rival Vocalists — Pettifogging in St. Louis — 
A Friendly Game of Poker — Tom the Curtain 
Wan — The Manager and Planter, Signor Mat- 
thieu — Letter to Kev. A. Ballard — My First 
and Last Sermon — Tennessee Door-keeper — 
The Player and the Phrenologist — Interview 
•with an Editor, &c. &c. 

"A very whimsical apprenticeship it is, 
making it impossible to preserve, while read- 
ing it, the slightest approach to gravity. In- 
deed, we have seldom met with a book so 
irresistibly provocative of a perpetual ' broad 
grin.' It is as good as a play, and a play of 
the richest comedy." — Jeffersonian. 

Price 50 Cents. {Complete^ 





With Eight Original Engravings, from 
Designs hy Darley. 
"Not only fim, bu<- information is to he 
gained from tYiera.." —Saturdai/ Post. 

" It contains palpable and amusing hits 
en the people and customs of different 
places.' — Baltimore Patriot. 

" The wit is of th<i ' Sam Slick' sort."— iV. 
r. Commercial. 

Price 50 Oints. (Complete.) 





(JOHN S. ROBB, of St. Louis, Mo.) 


With Eight Humorous Illustrations by Darhy* 
The Western Wanderings of a Typo—" Not 
a Drop more. Major, unless it's sweetened"— 
Nettle liottom Ball— A Cat Story— A Spiritual 
Sister — IIoss Allen's Apology — Natural Act- 
ing — A Canal Adventure — The Standing Can- 
didate — An Emigrant's Perils — Fun with a 
"Bar" — Telegraphing an Express — The Pre- 
emption Kight — Yaller Pledges — George;Mun- 
day.the Hatless Prophet — Courting in French 
Hollow — The Second Advent — Settlement 

' Fun — " Doing" a Landlord — Who is Sir 
George Simpson ? — Letters from a Baby — 
Seth Tinder's First Courtship^The Death 
Struggle—" Who are They ?" 

"Mr. Rohb is better known probably aa 
' Solitaire,' under which name he has written 

; some very broad, farcical sketches of Western 
manners for the Jievnlle, of St. Louis. Some 

I of the sketches in this volume are spirited 
and cleverly written, and they are all lively 
and full of animal spirits; but they are too 
brief to contain a development of character. 
The best sketch is the story of ' Old Sugar,' 
which is illustrated by an exceedingly fine 
drawing hy Darley. We feel, after inspecting 
the designs in this book, that we have here- 
tofore unJ-errated the comic powers of thia 

; admirable artist ; there are evidences in some 

I of these designs of a very high order of ge- 

' nius." — N. 1 . Mirror. 

Price 50 Cents. (Complete.) 


Twdf I. i. Edition, with Two Additional Letters^ 


Major Jones' Courtshi^^ detailed, with othet 
Scenes and Adventures, in a Series of Letterg 
by himself. 

"Messrs. I'arey & Hart hfve published the 
drollest of tin- droll books of ..he season. It ia 
a strange production, but so brimful of fus^ 
that half a drop would make it run over."—' 
' U, 8. Gazette. 


Price 50 Cents. (Complete.) 

riie Bench and Bar of Jurytown, 



. The Drama in Pokerville— The Great Small 
Affair Announcement — Feeling in Pokerville 
—The Great Small Affair Opening— The 
Great Pokerville Preliminaries — The Great 
Small Affair Mystery — The Great Pokerville 
Re-union — The Great Small Affair Dinner — 
The Great Pokerville "Saw"— The Great Small 
Affair Scandal — The Great Small Affair Chas- 
tisement — The Great Small Affair Duel — 
What was built on the Great Small Affair 
Foundation — The Bench and Bar of Jury- 
town — A Sucker in a Warm Bath — An " Aw- 
ful Place"— The Elk Runners—" Old Sol" in 
a Delicate Situation — The "Gagging Scheme," 
or, West's Great Picture — Establishing the 
Science — Ole Bull in the " Solitude" — How 
our Friend B 's Hair went — A Fancy Bar- 
keeper — " Mr. Nobble !" — " Honey Run" — A 
Hung Jury — Paternal Gushings — A Werry 
Grave Exhortation — "Your Turn next, Sir" — 
Stopping to " Wood" — Death of Mike Fink — 
Establishing a Connection — A Night in a 
Swamp — Steamboat Miseries — A Resurrec- 
tionist and his Freight. 

" When we say that it is entirely worthy of 
him, in design and execution, our readers 
'had better believe it,' we could not pay the 
work a higher compliment." — N. Y. Spirit of 
the Times. 

Price 50 Cents. (Complete) 




A Quarter Race in Kentucky — A Shark 
Story — Lanty Oliphant in Court — Bill Morse 
on the City Taxes — Ance Veasy's Fight with 
Eeub Sessions — The Fastest Funeral on Re- 
cord — Going to Bed before a Young Lady — 
A Millerite Miracle — Old Singletire — "Run- 
ning a Saw" on a French Gentleman — Break- 
ing a Bank — Taking the Census — Dick Har- 
lan's Tennessee Frolic — " Falling off a Log" 
jn a Game of '• Seven up" — The " Werry Fast 
Crab" — " French without a Master" — A Rol- 
licking Dragoon Officer — The Georgia Major 
in Court — Uncle Billy Brown "Glorious" — 
Old Tuttle's La,st Quarter Race — Bill Dean, 
the Texan Ranger — The Steamboat Captain 
who was averse to Racing — Bob Herring the 
Arkansas Boar-hunter— McAl pin's Trip to 
Charleston— Indian Kubb<;r Pills— A Murder 
Cane in Aiissjssippi — Kicihing a Yankee — A 

"Down-east" Original— Somebody in my Be(J 
— A Day at Sol. Slice's — Cupping on the Star- 
num — A Bear Story — Playing Poker in Ar* 
kansas — &c. &c. 

•' It is illustrated with original engravings 
from designs by Darley. The ' Quarter Race 
in Kentucky' \i one of the best stories that 
was ever penned, and the volume contains a 
number of others, that have from time to 
time appeared in the Spirit of the Times, 
which are hard to beat." — N. 0. Picayune. 

Price 50 Cents. {Complete.) 





The Yankee amongst the Mermaids; a 
Yarn by a Cape Codder, with an illustration 
— Leap Year ; or, A Woman's Privilege — The 
Two Pigs, a Swinish Colloquy — Thaumatur- 
gia ; Part First, The Yankee in Hell, with an 
illustration; Part Second, The Resurrection- 
ists; Part Third, The Canal-boat; Part Fourth, 
The Last and the Least — My First Fight, with 
an illustration — Immiscible Immigration, a 
petty Peter Pindaric — Sam Weller, a Solilo- 
quy in Verse — The Pic-Nic Party, with two 
illustrations — The Poetry of Niagara — A Wet 
Day at a Watering Place — My First Punch, 
with an illustration — The Scapegrace and the 
Scapegoat, a Matter-of-fact Sketch — The Old 
Dutchman and his Long Box, with an illus- 
tration — The Man in the Big Boots — Dickey 
Doddicombe, with an illustration — Philadel- 
phia in the Dog-days — &c. &c. 

"The drollest specimen of waggery that 
ever emanated from that drollest of men, 
Burton." — The City Item. 

Price 50 Cents. (Complete.) 




EX V. P. M. S. U. KY. 

The City Physician versus The Swamp Doc- 
tor — My Early Life — Getting acquainted with 
the Medicines — A Tight Race considerin' — 
Taking Good Advice— The Day of Judgment 
— A Rattlesnake on a Steamboat — Frank and 
the Professor — The Curious Widow — The Mis- 
sissippi Patent Plan for pulling Teeth — Vale- 
rian and the Panther — Seeking a Location — 
Cupping an Irishman — Being Examined for 
my Degree— Stealing a Baby — The " Swamp 
Doctor" to Escnlapius — My First Call in the 
Swamp— The Man of Aristocratic Diseases— 
^The Indefatigable B'-ar-huuter— Love in a 
' Gard^'B— How tocureKits- i Struggle forLife. 


Price 50 cents. (Complete.) 




Author of "Adventures of Captain Simon 


" A collection of humorous stories well cal- 
culated to provoke laughter. We advise the 
immediate purchase of the hook, but a tem- 
perate use of it — one story at a sitting will 
he sufficient; a greater indulgence might 
result seriously. The very pictures have 
eet us in a roar, and we can scarce compose 
our nerves sufficiently to make our words 
intelligible to the compositor." — Pldlada. 

" This is, of course, quite full of fun — ' all 
sorts' of fun ; and those who want a good 
laugh, should take a peep at Elliot's very 
original comic illustrations." — Am. Courier. 

"This book is by the favorite and witty 
author of ' Adventures of Simon Suggs,' with 
original designs by the inimitable Darley. 
It is a capital illustration of the laughable 
Bide of Western and Southern life. If you 
would enjoy a broad laugh, buy it." — City 

" There is enough ' fun' in this volume to 
'spice' a magazine for a twelvemonth." — 
Southern Literary Gazette. 

"Excellent for dispelling care are the hu- 
morous works with which Mr. A. Hart, Chest- 
nut and Fourth streets, is supplying the 
lovers of mirth. His is the only ' library' of 
the kind in the country, where genuine hu- 
mor is measured out in periodical doses, and 
always warranted to make a man ' laugh 
and grow fat.' That is the motto, and a 
capital one it is. The last lot is labelled 
'Widow Rugby's Husband,' divided into a 
number of the most comical and amusing 
Btories imaginable. The illustrations of ' A 
Ride with Old Kit,' 'A Night at the Ugly 
Man's,' ' Captain McFadden,' and the ' Poor 
Joke,' are among the richest provocatives to 
a hearty laugh." — Amencan Courier. 

Price ^^ cents. [Complete.) 

Polly Peablossom^s Wedding, 



By the Author of " Streaks of Squatter Life" 

'• Major Jones's Courtship," dc. 

With Engravings from Original Designs by 


" A mirth-provoking book, well calculated 
to enliven an evening and put to flight ennui, 
melancholy, and all the gloomy humors 
' flesh is heir to.' " — Pidladdjphia Advertise'. 

Price 50 cmts 





" The peculiar manners and odd customs, 
the curious ways, and still more curious peo- 
ple who reside, live, or float on the great 
river, are passed in review, and pleasant 
stories are told about them." — Boston Even- 
ing Gazette. 

•'The stories are well told, and some of 
the sketches of character are well drawn." — 
Savannah JVews. 

"We have here a neat volume of sketches 
by one of the contributors of the Gazette; a 
gentleman of fine abilities and finished edu- 
cation, who resides in Mississippi. The pre- 
sent volume is confined entirely to scenes of 
Southern Life, all of which are told with 
spirit and naturalness." — Saturday Gazette. 

"This is a pleasant book, and interesting 
from the circumstance of the sketches, as the 
author tells us in his preface, being chiefly 
drawn from real scenes and characters, illus- 
trative of life in Mississippi; and, happily, 
for the most part, not the low comic life af' 
fected by so many of the recent painters of 
Southern manners and adventures." — Korth 

" The sketches before us are full of capti- 
vating and amusing incidents; and to the 
Mississippi reader, they are peculiarly in- 
teresting, from the fact that many of the 
'Scenes' are laid within the borders of our 
own State. To all who would enjoy an enter- 
taining volume, we commend this work." — 
The Mississippian. 

" A graphic description of the peculiarities 
of people in a new country, in which curious 
relations are blended with satire and broad 
humour, cannot fail to amuse. Such is the 
character of this agreeable volume." — Balti- 
Tiiore. American. 


Adventures of Percival 3iaberry. 

Price 50 cents. 

" ' Nobody's Son' will interest and please 
everybody. It is a delightful book — a no- 
velty in its way, and full to overflowing with 
curious and absorbing events. Those who 
read the first chapter will not lay it down 
until the story is mastered entire." — City 

" A well-written story of adventure, bor- 
dering somewhat on the marvellous, but an 
agreeable and interesting book." — Savannah 

" This is a well-written book, by an authot 
from whom we hope to hear again. It is full 
of incident and adventure, while Maberry 
himself is exceedingly well drawn."— Aitor* 
day Gazette. 



LOKD BACON'S WOKKS.^ Price Reduced to $2 50. 

Price Reduced to ^7 50. 

In 3 Royal 8vo. Volumes, Cloth Gilt. 



In Three Volumes, Octavo. 

The American edition of the works of 
Lord Bacon, now offered to the public, is 
reprinted from the most approved Eng:lish 
edition, that of Basil Montagu, Esq., which 
has recently issued from the celebrated 
press of Pickering, (the modern Aldus,) in 
Beventeen octavo volumes. It contains the 
complete works of the illustrious philoso- ^ 
pher, those in Latin being translated into < 
English. In order to render the publica- 
tion cheap, and therefore attainable by all 
our public and social libraries, as well as 
by those general readers who study econo- 
my, the seventeen octavo volumes have 
been comprised in three volumes, imperial 
octavo. Being printed from the most accu- 
rate as well as complete English edition, 
and carefully revised, the American edition 
will possess greater advantages for the cri- 
tical scholar as well as the general reader. 
In typography, paper and binding, it will 
be recognized as a brilliant specimen of 
the products of the American book trade. 

"We may safely affirm, that, by giving 
the Inductive Philosophy to the world. 
Lord Bacon has proved one of its most sig- 
nal benefactors, and has largely done his 
part towards promoting the final triumph 
of all truth, whether natural, or moral and 
intellectual, over all error ; and towards 
bringing on that glorious crisis, destined, 
we doubt not, one day to arrive, v\'hen. ac- 
cording to the allegorical representation of 
that great poet, who was not only the Ad- 
mirer of Bacon, but in some respects his 
kindred genius — Truth, though ' hewn like 
the mangled body of Osiris, into a thousand 
pieces, and scattered to the four v^^inds, 
shall be gathered limb to limb, and mould- 
ed, w^ith every joint and member, into an 
immortal feature of loveliness and perfec- 
tion.' " 

- " We are more gratified than we can 
find words to express, to find a publishing 
house in this country, putting forth a pub- 
lication like the Complete Works of Lord 
Bacon, in a form at once compact, elegant 
and economical." — Brother Jonathan. 


In 10 vols., Royal 8vo, Cloth gilt, for 

only $10 !1 

Including the Waverly Novels, Poetical and 

Prose Works, with the Author's latest 


Also, FuVrlound Library Style Pi-ice $12.50. 



3340 Pages for Two Dollars and a Halfc 

CAREY & HART, have recently published 




With all the Author''s latest Notes and Addi- 
tions, Complete, without the slightest 
In Five Royal 8vo. volumes, upwards of 
850 Pages in each volume. 

Waverley, Guy Mannering, Antiquary* 
Rob Roy, Black Dwarf, Old Mortality, 
Heart of Mid-Lothian, Bride of Lammer- 
moor, Legend of Montrose, Ivanhoe, The 
Monastery, The Abbot, Kenilworth, The 
Pirate, Fortunes of Nigel, Peveril of the 
Peak, Quentin Durward, St Ronan's Well, 
Redgauntlet, The Betrothed, The Talisman, 
Woodstock, The Highland Widow, Two 
Drovers, My Aunt Margaret's Mirror, 
Tapestried Chamber, The Laird's Jock, 
Fair Maid of Perth, Anne of Gierstein, 
Count Robert of Paris, Castle Dangerous, 
The Surgeon's Daughter. 

The object of the publishers in thus re- 
ducing the price of the Waverley Novels, 
to endeavor to give them a greatly ex- 
tended circulation, and they have, there- 
fore, put them at a price which brings them 
within the reach of every family in the 
country. There is now no fireside that 
need be without a set of the most charming 
works of fiction ever issued from the press : 
for there is no one that can't afford two 
dollars and a half-TWO DOLLARS 
AND A HALF for twenty-five of Sir Wal- 

er Scott's Novels ! ten cents for a com- 
plete Novel!! ten cents for "Ivanhoe," 
which was originally published at a guinea 
and a half! ! ! It seems impossible, and ye( 

t is true. In no other way can the same 
amount of amusement and instruction be 
obtained for ten times the money, for the 
Waverley Novels alone form a Library. 

The publishers wish it to be distinctly 
understood, that, while the price is so great- 
ly reduced the work is in no way abridged, 


Edition, in forty-eight volumes, which sella 
for seventy-two dollars. 

Now is the time to buy ! Such an oppor- 
tunity may never again occur. I^et every 
one, then, who wants the Waverley Novels 
~jr two dollars a?id a half, noio purchase, foi 
if the publishers do not find the sale greatly 
increased, by the immense reduction in 
price, they will resume the old price ol 
twenty-five cents for each Novel, wuich 
was considered wonderfully eheap. 










Illustrated with Portraits from Original t 
Pictures. / 

Complete in one Tolume octavo — $3 50. \ 

Intellectual History, Condition, and Pros- \ 
pects of the Country — Edwards, Franklin, > 
Jefferson, Madison, Dwight, Marshall, Hamil- 1 
ton, Ames, J. Q. Adams, C. B. Brown, Wirt, \ 
Quincy, Allston, Story, Paulding, Flint. Chan- ', 
ning, Wheaton, Webster, Audubon, Walsh, \ 
Irving, Buckminster,Verplanck, Norton, San- 1 
derson, Dana, Wilde, Cooper, A. H. Everett, \ 
Hall, Schoolcraft, Dewey, Sparks. John Neal, ; 
Bryant, Edward Everett, Kennedy, Bush, | 
Sedgwick, Wayland, Prescott, Edward Robin- 1 
eon, Leslie, Legare, Ware. Bancroft, Marsh, ) 
Hooker, Brownson, Child, Bird, Emerson, ; 
Fay, Cheever, Hoffman, Kirkland, Haw- 
thorne, Willis, Longfellow. Simms, Joseph ; 
C. Neal, Poe, Tuckerman, Fuller, Headley, 
Mathews, Thorpe, Whipple. 

"Mr. Griswold's book has been executed 
honestly, ably, and well, and is a valuable 
contribution to the literature of the coun-; 
try." — Knicltcrhocker. 

"We deem the book by all odds the best \ 
of its kind that has ever been issued; and we 
certainly know of no one who could have { 
made it better." — N. Y. Courier and Enqnirer. 

E Nito anil C^cap ^^ftion 





Translated from the French, with Notes and 


The Four Volumes complete in Two. 

Price only §1 50. 

The edition of the History of the French 

Revolution now offered to the public is 

printed on VERY LARGE TYPE, on good 

paper, and contains upwards of 

Eighteen Hundred Large Octavo Pages, 
and is unqiiestionably the cheapest book ever 
published. It forms a necessary introduction 
TION, and the two works present a complete 


from the commencement of the French Re- 
volution, down to the death of Napoleon. 

i/^i^ Also a fine Edition with 13 steel En- 
gravings, 2 vols., Extra Gilt, $3. 


The work mentioned above comprises a 
list of the most emment writers of Germany, 
together with copious extracts from their 
works, beginning with Luther and reaching 
up to the present time. For those who are 
interested in the literature of Germany, it 
presents a valuable aid in becoming more 
intimately acquainted with the German 
mind; and even to the curious it offers an 
excitement which will grow stronger in pro- 
portion as their taste is cultivated. 

In the present volume we find valuable ex- 
tracts, given from their prose writings. Al- 
though the writers follow in chronological 
order, and Luther stands at the head of his in- 
tellectual brethren, the longest space is allow- 
ed to those who claim our greatest attention; 
and Goethe therefore occupies the most con- 
spicuous position both in the specimens given 
and the selection of the pieces. Goethe is a 
writer who requires most of all to be studied ; 
while others, as Schiller, in his passionate 
mood and ideal longings, requires no silent 
and incessant reflection, because he works 
his effects immediately by rousing the depth 
of our nature. Next to Goethe, Schiller 
appears in an article upon Naive and Senti- 
mental Poetry, a bold effort of him, the suc- 
cess of which is however yet very disputed, 
to classify every produce of Art according to 
the impressions made upon the reader, and 
to dispense with the various and cumber- 
some forms of the departments into which 
we have been accustomed hitherto to ar- 
range all subjects bearing upon poetry. The 
department upon which Schiller enters 
here, belongs properly to the philosophy of 
Art ; to the aesthetics, the investigation of 
the beautiful. 

Foremost stands Lessing, the first critic of 
his time. Next to him comes Herder, a de- 
vout philosopher, and a clear-sighted intel- 
lect, with the eyes of a child; curious to 
penetrate the maze and noisy market of the 
world, the variegated life among the ancients 
and the moderns in search for that beautiful 
humanity which he had sketched in his own 
mind, and which he would fain proclaim the 
order of an otherwise mysterious providence. 
The two brothers Schlegel — William, the 
noble interpreter and translator of Shaks- 
peare, and Frederic, known best by his in- 
vestigations of the language and wisdom of 
the Indians— follow him, and Moses Men- 
delssohn, a Jewish philosopher, closes the 
series of these writers. The treatise of the 
latter on the Sublime and Naive will be read 
with interest by everybody who has only an 
ordinary reading of ancient and modem 
poetry. Distinct from all the rest stand WiE- 
LAND and Jean Paul Richter, best known 
in this country by the appellation of Jeak 








rirst Lady of the Bed-chamber to the Queen. 

With a Biographical Introduction from " The Heroic W9men of the 
French Revolution." 



" The book is a noble defence of Marie An- ' 
toinette against the many calumnies breathed 
against her. Moreover, as a picture of man- 
ners during the latter years of Louis XV., 
and the entire reign of his successor, it has 
no superior ; it is at once more decent and 
more veracious than the 'Life of Dubarry,' 
and the thousand other garbled memoirs of 
that period. A large number of notes, ex- 
planatory and otherwise, accompany the 
volume, and add materially to its value. 
Mr. Hart has published the book in a style 
of great elegance, and illustrated it with 
portraits, on steel, of Marie Antoinette and 
Madame Elizabeth. It is a book that should 
find a place on every lady's centre-table." — 
JVeal's Gazette. 

"Two very interesting volumes, which the 
reader will not be likely to leave till he has 
finished them." — Public Ledger. 

"The material of this history could not 
have emanated from a more authentic or of- 
ficial source, nor have been honoured with a 
more distinguished or capable god-father 
than De Lamartine." — Saturday Courier. 

" These elegant volumes are a reprint from 
the third London edition of this very delight- 
ful work. The vicissitudes depicted in the 
volumes, and scarcely less the charming 
Btyle of the author and the entire familiarity 
of her theme, make the work one of the most 
Interesting that has recently issued from the 
American press, and no less instructive and 
entertaining." — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

"This delightful work, abounding with 
historical incidents connected with one of the 
most stirring periods of French history, pre- 
sents the reader with the personal annals of 
one of the most amiable and excellent -women 

that ever shared the honours of royalty. 
Compiled by one every way competent by 
talent and education, and qualified by per- 
sonal familiarity, the facts are entitled to the 
confidence of the reader, while the style ia 
piquant and graceful. The work is got up 
in a very superior style of mechanical exe- 
cution." — Baltimore Sun. 

" AVe have seldom perused so entertaining 
a work — it is as a mirror of the most splendid 
court of Europe, at a time when monarchy 
had not been shorn of any of its beams, that 
it is particularly worthy of our attention." — 
Morning Chronicle. 

" There is not a page of the work which ia 
not deeply or amusingly interesting. The 
position of the author at the court of Louis 
XVI. gave her extraordinary opportunities 
for looking behind the scenes for the causes 
of much that was entirely inexplicable to 
the public. Indeed, there can be no ques- 
tion of her knowledge, while of her truthful- 
ness, as far as she goes, there is abundant 
evidence in the volumes themselves. We 
cannot believe Marie Antoinette to have 
been as immaculate as she is painted by 
Madame Campan. Young, giddy, inexperi- 
enced and wilful, she was cast headlong into 
the most profligate court of Christendom. 
Surrounded by pleasures and temptations, 
amid a set of beings to whom gallantry was 
so habitual that it ceased to be remarked — 
with an impotent husband, and with all 
around him corrupt, venal, and licentious, 
we cannot believe that all the scandalous 
stories respecting the queen were entirely 
without foundation, that she was alwayt 
misconstrued and maligned."— .Bosiow Morn- 
ing Post. 


At less tlian Half Price. 

The great success that has attended the publication of 
Comprising the Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of the Most Distinguished Authori 
of Modern Times, has induced the publishers to issue a New. Revised and very Cheap 
Edition, with Finely Engraved Portraits of the Authors ; and while they have added to 
the series the writings of several distinguished authors, they have reduced the price more 

The vvritings of each author will generally be comprised in a single octavo volume;, 
well printed from new type, on fine white paper manufactured expressly for this edition. 
The series will contain all the most able papers that have ever appeared in 


Ei)Z SLontion €Vuarterli) l^ebfeto, anti 3SlactltDooti's |)aai)ajfne» 

and may indeed be called the cream of those publications. 

It is only necessary to mention the names of the authors whose writings will appear. T. 

Babington Macaulay, Archibald Alison, Rev. Sydney Smith, Professor Wilson, 

James Stephen, Robert Southey, Sir Walter Scott. Lord Jkffrey, Sir James Mack- 


The popularity of the authors and the extreme moderatick of the price, recommend 


To HEADS OF Families for their Children, as perfect models of style. 

To Managers of Book Societies. Book C]ubs. &c. 

To School Inspectors. Schoolmasters and Tutors, as suitable gifts and prizes, or 
adapted for School Libraries. 

Travellers on a Journey will find in these portable and cheap volumes something to 
read on the road, adapted to fill a corner in a portmanteau or carpet-bag 

Tn Passengers on board a Ship, here are ample materials in a narrow compass for 
whilmg away the monotonous hours of a sea voyage. 

To Officers in the Army and Navy, and to all Economists in space or pocket, who, 
having limited chambers, and small book-shelves, desire to lay up for themselves a conceri' 
traied Library, at a moderate expenditure. 

To ALL who have Friends in Distant Co-ontries, as an acceptable present to send 
out to them. 

The MoD'-rn Essayists will yield to the Settler in the Backwoods of America the most 
valuable and interesting writings of all the most distinguished authors of our time at less 
than one quarter the price they could be obtained in any other form. 

The Student and Lover of Literature at Home, who has hitherto been compelled 
to wade through volumes of Reviews for a single article, may now^ become possessed of 
every article worth reading for little more than the cost of the annual subscription. 

I. ) Ranke's History of the Popes. Cowley and 


IVrilton, Mitford's History of Greece, The 
Athenian Orators, Comic Dramatists of the 
^^-.^^r,.-^ .,T^ — ^,«^^^, .,T^«-rTr. ^Restoration. Lord Holland, Warren Hast- 
CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS Ings. Frederic the Great, Lays of Ancient 
\A/ o I -T- 1 M o.e r\c- 5 Rome, Madame D'Arblay, Addison, Ba- 

WKITINCaSUh rere's Memoirs. Montgomery's Poems, Civil 

THOMAS BABING-TON MACAULAY. ^Disabilities of the Jews, Mill on Govern- 
in One Volume, with a finely engraved i ment. Bentham's Defence of Mill, Utilita- 
portrait. from an original picture \ r an Theory of Government, and Earl Chat- 

by Henry Inman. Cloth Gilt, ham, second part, &c. 

$2 00. s '^ "^ay now be asked by some sapient 

nnn* t»*a ( critics. Why make all this coil about a mere 

C'Onienis. < periodic*: essayist? Of what possible con- 

Milton, Machiavelli, Dryden, History, | cern is it tc anybody, whether Mr. Thomas 
Hallam's Constitutional History, Southey's ? Babington Macaulay be, or be not, overrun 
Colloquies on Society, Moore's Life of By- > with faults, since he is nothing more than 
ron, Southey's Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 5 one of the three-day immortals who contri- 
Croker's Boswell's Life of Johnson, Lord 5 bute flashy and ' taking' articles to a Quar- 
Nugent's Memoirs of Hampden, Nare's Me- s terly Review? What great work has he 
moirs of Lord Burghley, Dumont's Recol- < written? Such questions as these might be 
lections of Mirabeau, Lord Mahon's War of < put by the same men who place the Specta- 
Ihe Succession, Walpole's Letters to Sir H. < tor. Tattler and among the British 
Mann, ThacKaray's Historv of Earl Chat- < classics, yet judge of the s;ze of a cotempo- 
ham. liord Bacon, Mackmtosns History o^> rarv"s mind by that of his book, and who 
the Revolution of England. Sir John Mai- } can naroiy re?cguize amolitude of conipre- 
colm's Life of Lord Clive. Life and Writings J hension, unless^it be spreaa over the six 
of Sr W. Temple, Church and State, 5 hundred pages of octaVos iad quartos. — 


S.3ch iissn would placeBancroftabove Web- 
ster anJ SparKs above Oalhoun, Adams and 
Everett— deny a posterity for Bryant's Tlia- 
naiopsis, and predict longevity to Pollok's 
Course of Time. It is singular that the sa- 
gacity which can detect thought only in a 
state of dilution, is not sadly graveled when 
it thinks of the sententious aphorisms which 
have survived whole libraries of folios, and 
the little songs which have outrun, in the 
race of fame, so many enormous epics.— 
While it can easily be demonstrated that 
Macaulay's writings contain a hundred-fold 
more matter and "thought, than an equal 
number of volumes taken from what are 
called, par eminence^ the 'British Essay- 
ists,' it is not broaching any literary heresy 
to piedict, that they will sail as far down 
the stream of time, as those eminent mem- 
bers of the illustrious family of British elas- 




In One Volume, 8vo. with a portrait. 

Price m 25. 


Chateanbriand, Napoleon. Eossuet, Po- 
land, Madame de Siael, National Monu- 
ments, IMiirslial Ney, Robert Bruce, Paris 
)n 1314. Tlie Louvre in 1814, Tyrol, France 
\n 1K33, Italy, Scott. Campbell and B^ron, 
Schools of besijin, I.amartine, The Copy- 
right Question. Wichelet's France, Military 
Treason and Civic Soldiers, Arnold'? Rome. 
Mirabeau, Bulwer's Athens. The Reign of 
Terror, The French Revolution of 1^30, 
The Fall of Turkey. The Spanish Revolu- 
•on of 1820, Karainsin's Russia, Effects of 
jie French Revolution of 1810, Deserton of 
Portugal, Wellington. Carlist Struggle in 
Spain, The Affghanistan Expedition, The 
Future, &c. &c. 



Fine Edition. In One Volume; with a 
portrait. Price SI 00. 

" Almost every thing he has written is so 
characteristic that it would be difficult to 
attribute it to any other man. The marked 
individual features and the rare combina- 
tion of power displayed in his works, give 
them a fascination unconnected with the 
subject of which he treats or the general cor- 
rectness of his views. He sometimes hits 
the mark in the white, he sometimes misses 
It altogether, for he by no means confines 
his pen to theories to which he is calculated 
to do just'ce; out whether he hits or misi=ps, 
he IS always sparkling and delightful. The 
charm of iiis writings is somewhat similar 
to that of Montaigne or Charles Lamb "- 
finrrth American Review. 



In One Volume 8vo., first American Edition 
with a Portrait. Price $1 00. 


Christopher m his Sporting Jacket— A 
Tale of Expiation — Morning Monologue — 
The Field of Flowers— Cottages— An Hour's 
Talk about Poetry — Inch Cruin— A Day at 
Windermere— The Moors — Highland Snow- 
Storm— The Holy Child— Our Parish— May- 
day— Sacred Poetiy— Christopher in his 
Aviary — Dr. Kitchiner — Soliloquy on the 
Seasons — A Few Words on Thomson — 
The Snowball Bicker of Piedmont — Christ- 
mas Dreams — Our Winter Quarters— StroP 
to Grafsmere — L'Envoy. 

Extractfrom Howitfs " Rural LifeP 

" And not less for that wonderful series 
of articles by Wilson, in Blackwood's 
^l3iga./A\\e— in their kind as truly amazing 
and as truly glorious as the romances oj 
Scott or the -poetry of Wordstvorth. Far and 
wide and much as these papers have been 
admired, wherever the English language ia 
read, I still question whether any oi;e man 
has a just idea of them as a whole." 


Carlyle's Miscellanies. 


hi one Svo. volume^ ivith a Portrait. 

Price SI 7.5. 


Jean Paul Friedrich Richter — State of 
German Literature — Werner — Goethe's 
Helena — Goethe— Burns— Hey ne— German 
Playwrights— Voltaire— Noval is— Si o^ns ol 
the Times— Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 
again— On History — Schiller — The Nibel- 

!gen Lied— Early German Literature — 
Tay lor's Historic Survey of ( jerman Poetry 
— Characteristics— Johnson— Death of Go- 
ethe—Goethe's Works— Diderot— On His- 
tory again— Count Cagliostro— Corn I^aw 
Rhymes — The Diamond Necklace— Mira- 
beau— French Parliamentary History — 
Walter Scott, &c. &c. 








In One Volume, Svo. Pfice Si ^5. 


Contents of " Talfotird.^^ ' 

Essays on British Novels and Romances, 
introductory to a series of Criticisms on the ; 
Living Novelists— Mackenzie, Tlie Author J 
of Waverley, Godwin, Maturin, Rymer on ; 
Tragedy, CoUey Gibber's Apology for his 
Life, John Dennis's Works, iVIodern Pe- 
riodical Literature, On the Genius and! 
Writings of Wordsw^orth, North's Life of ^ 
Lord Guilford, Hazlitt's Lectures on the f 
Drama, Wallace's Prospects of Mankind, 
Nature and Providence, On Pulpit Ora- 
tory, Recollections of Lisbon, Lloyd's; 
Poems, Mr Oldaker on Modern Improve- 
ments, A Chapter on Time, On the Profes- 
sion of the Bar, The Wine Cellar, Destruc-! 
tion of the Brunswick Theatre by Fire, I 
First Appearance of Miss Fanny Kemble, I 
On the Litellectual Character of the late ' 
Wm. Hazlitt. 

Contents of " Stephen." 

Life of Wilherforce, Life of Whitfield and ! 
Froude, D' Aubigne's Reformation, Lite and 
Times of Baxter, Physical Theory of Ano- 
ther liife. The Port Royalists, Ignatius Loy- 
ola, Taylor's Edwin the Fair. 

" H-is (Talfourd's) Critical writings mani- 
fest on every page a sincere, earnest and 
sympathizing love of intellectual excel- 
lence and moral beauty. The kindliness; 
of temper and tenderness of sentiment with \ 
which they are animated, are continually J 
suggesting pleasant thoughts of the author." ; 
— North American Review. 






In One Volume 8fo., with a Portrait. 

From a very able article in the North 
British Review we extract the following 

"It is a book not to be read only— but; 
studied— it is a vast repository; or rather 
a system or institute, embracing the whole 
circle of letters — if we except the exact 
sciences— and contains within itself, notin 
a desultory form, but in a well digested 
scheme, more original conceptions, bold 
and fearless speculation and just reasoning 
on all kinds and varieties of subjects than 
are to be found in any English writer with 
whom we are acquainted within the pre- 
sent or the last generation. * * * His 
choice of words is unbounded and his feli- 
city of expression, to the most impalpable 
shade of discrimination, almost miraculous. 
Playfu., lively, and full of illustration, no 
subject is so dull or so dry that he cannot 
invest it with interest, and none so tricing 
that it cannot acquire dignity or elegance 
from his pencil. Independently however, 
ol mere style, and apart from the great 
variety of subjects embraced by his pen, 
tlie distinguishing feature of his writings, 
and that in which he excels his cotempo- 
rary reviewers, is the deep vein of practical 
tfloughl which runs throughout them al) " 






Collected and Edited by his Soiu 

In One Volume 8vo., with a Portrait, $1 75. 




3IIIustrat£Jbf ij ^^■^ ^^^^ artists. 

In one volume octavo, uniform with Carey <S 
HarVs illustrated Bryant, Willis, <£c. 

The following exquisitely finished line en- 
gravings are from original designs, by our 
most celebrated painters, and are executed in 
the highest style of art : — Portrait of the Au- 
thoress ; Hope ; A Child playing with a 
Watch; The Reaper; Ida; Old Friends; The 
Child's Portrait; Little Red Riding Hood; 
The Life Boat; Twilight Hours; The. Arab 
and his Steed ; Zuleika. 

" There is nothing mechanical about her ; 
all is buoyant, overflowing, irrepressible vi- 
vacity, like the bubbling up of a natural 
fountain. In her almost childish playful 
ness, she reminds us of that exquisite crea. 
tion of Fouque, Undine, who knew no law 
but that of her own waywardness. The great 
charm of her poetry is its unaffected simpli- 
city. It is the transparent simplicity ""f truthj 
reflecting the feeling of the mon»>Qt like a 
mirror." — Rev. Dr. Davidson. 

"In all the poems of Mrs. Osgood, we find 
occasion to admire the author as well as iJhe 
works. Her spontaneous and instinctive effu- 
sions appear, in a higher degree than any 
others in our literature, to combine the rarest 
and highest capacities in art with the sincerest 
and deepest sentiments and the noblest aspi- 
rations. They would convince us, if the 
beauty of her life were otherwise unknown, 
that Mrs. Osgood is one of the loveliest cha- 
racters in the histories of literature or so- 
ciety." — Pennsylvania Inquirer and Courier. 

" The position of Mrs. Osgood, as a graceful 
and womanly poetess, is fixed, and will be 
enduring. To taste of faultless delicacy, a 
remarkable command of poetical language, 
great variety of cadence, and a most musical 
versification, she has added recently the high- 
est qualities of inspiration, imagination, and 
passion, in a degree rarely equalled in the 
productions of women. . . . The reputation 
which Mrs. Osgood enjoys, as one of the most 
amiable, true-hearted, and brilliant ladies in 
American society, will add to the good for- 
tune of a book, the intrinsic excellence and 
beauty of which will secure for it a place 
among the standard creations of feDJale g©i 
Bius "—Home Journal. 



CAREY & HART have just published in four ^pl^?^'^ volumes, beautif^^^^ 
and uniform in size with their new edition of " THE MODERN ESSAYIblb,' and 
forming a suitable companion to that delightful series: — 



With Designs by F. O. C. Darley, 


With a Portrait of the Authoress by Qieney 
after Freeman. 


The Divided Burden — A Landscape — Oris- 
ka— The Ancient Family Clock — Eve— The 
Scottish Weaver — The Indian Summer- 
Erin's Daughter — The Western Emigrant— 
The Aged Pastor— The Tomb— The Drooping 
Team— The Beautiful Maid. 

" The volume is a most luxurious and gor- 
geous one, reflecting the highest credit on 
its ' getters up ;' and we know of nothing 
' from the American press which would form 
! a more acceptable gift-book, or a richer orna- 
ment for the centre-table. Of the Poema 
themselves it is needless to speak." — Y.Blade. 

" In the arts of typography the volume ia 
unsurpassed ; the illustrations are numerous 
and beautiful, and the binder's skill has done 
its best. We shall speak only of the exter- 
nals of the volume. Of its contents we will 
not speak flippantly, nor is it needful that 
we should say any thing. The name of Mrs. 
Sigourney is famihar in every cottage in 
America. She has, we think, been more 
generally read than any poetess in the coun- 
try, and her pure fame is reverently cherished 
by all." — N. O. Picayune. 

"It is illustrated in the most brilliant 
manner, and is throughout a gem-volume." — 
Pa. Inquirer. 

"In this production, however, they have 
excelled themselves. The illustrations are 
truly beautiful, and are exquisitely engraved. 
The entire execution of the volume is a proud 
evidence of the growing superiority of book- 
making on the part of American publishers." 
— JDollar Newspaper. 

"This work, so beautifully embellished, 
and elegantly printed, containing the select 
writings of one of the most celebrated female 
poets of America, cannot fail to be received 
with approbation." — Newburyport Paper. 

" The illustr-ations are trtily beautiful, and 
are exquisitely engi-aved. They are from 
designs by Darley, who has risen to high 
eminence in his department of art. The en- 
tire execution of the volume is a proud evi- 
dence of growing superiority in book-making 
on the part of American publishers. And 
this hberality has not been displayed upon a 
work unworthy oiit."—N.T.CommercicUAdo- 




Selections from tlie Poetical 

Literature of tlie United 

States, from tlie Time of 

tlie Revolution, 

Preliminary Essay on the Progress and 
Condition of Poetry in this Coiin- 
try^ and Bingraph ical and Cri- 
tical Notices of the most 
eminent Poets. 
eighth edition, revised and enlarged. 
Elegantly bound in Col'd Calf and Moroceo. 
Price S5 00, or in Cloth Gilt, SS 00 
" We think in the 500 pages of this oeau- 
tiful volume, the reader will fiud near'v all 
that is worth reading in American Poetry " 
—Boston Post. 

" Mr. G has done a service to our litera- 
ture which emiuenlly entitles him to the re- 
gard and favor of a discerning and impartial 
^xxhWc.'^''— National Intelligencer. 

" No better selection from the poetry of 
our native bards has ever been made, and 
no person could do better with the mate- 
rials than Mr. Griswold has diOWQ.''''— Boston 




Biographical Notices and 

From the Earliest Period to the Present 
By henry W. LONGFELLOW. 
In One Large 8vo. Volume, 750 Pages. 
Morocco elegant, S5 50, or cloth gilt, $3 75. 
Which comprises translations from the fol- 
lowing: Anglo-Saxon, Icelandic, Swe- 
dish, Dutch, German, French, Ita- 
lian, Spanish, Portuguese, &c. 
"It is the most complete work of the kind 
in English literature ^''—Boston Courier. 

" A^more desirable work for the scholar 
or man of taste has scarcely ever been is- 
luedia the United States."— iV. Y. Tribum 



A. HART, late CAREY & HART^ 

No. 126 Chestnut Street^ PliiladelpJiia, 




(Marie Rose Tascher de la Pagerie,) 


Translated froin the French by Jacob M. 

Howard^ Esq. 

In 2 vols., 700 pages, muslin extra gilt. 

♦'It possesses great intrinsic interest. It 

is a chequered exhibition of the undress life 

of Napoleon. All the glitter and pomp and 

dust of glory which bewilder the mind is 

laid; and we behold not the hero, the em- 

but a poor sickly 

cumstance — affrighted by shadows and tor- 
tured by straws." — Philada. City Item. 
" This is one of the most interesting works 





Complete in One Yohcme Octavo. 

Luther, Bcehme, Sancta Clara, Mosei, 
Kant, Lessing, Mendelssohn, Hamann,Wie« 
land, Musaus, Claudius, Lavater, Jacobi, 
Herder, Goeihe, Schiller, Fichte, Richter, 
A. VV. Schlegel, Sehleiermacher, Hegel, 
Zschokke, F. Schlegel, Hardenberg, Tieck, 

peror, the guide and moulder of destiny, s Schelling, Hoffmann, Chamisso. 
but a poor sickly child and creature of cir- < c^The author of this work— for it is well 

entitled to the name of an original produc- 

tion, though mainly consisting of transla- 
ions— Frederick H. Hedge of Bangor, is 

of the day, containing a multiplicity of m- 5 qualified, as few men are in this country, 
cidents in the life of Josephine and her re- >or wherever the PZnglish language is writ- 
nownedhusband, which have never before 5 ten^ for the successful accomplishment of 

been in print." — N. O. Tunes. 

"This is a work of high and commanding 
interest, and derives great additional value 
from the fact asserted by the authoress, that 
the greater portion of it was written by the 
empress herself. It has a vast amount of 
information on the subject of Napoleon'; 

the great literary enterprise to which he has 
devoted his leisure for several years. 

"Mr. Hedge has displayed great wisdom 
in the selection of the pieces to be trans- 
lated; he has given the best specimens of 
the best authors, so far as was possibAe in 

career, with copies of original documents J ^^^ '^"^^^^^ ^P^*^®- 
not to be found elsewhere, and with copious [ " We verjture to say that there cannot be 
notes at the end of the work." — JV. O. Com. \ crowded into the same compass a more 
Bulletin j faithful representation of the German mind, 

"Affords the reader a clearer insight into ( or a richer exhibition of the profound 
the private character of Napoleon than he thought, subtle speculation, massive learn- 
can obtain through any other source."— | ing and genial temper, that characterize the 

Baltimore Atnerican. 

"They are agreeably and well written; 
and it would be strange if it were not so, 
enjoying as Josephine did, familiar collo- 
quial intercourse with the most distinguish- 
ed men and minds of the age. The work 
does not, apparently, suffer by translation." 
'-Baltimore Patriot. 

tory, written by her own hand with- rare 
elegance and force, and at times with sur- 
passing pathos — of the remarkable woman 

most eminent literary men of that nation." 
— Harbinger. 

" What excellent matter we here have. 
The choicest gems of exuberant fancy, the 
most polished productions of scholarship, 
the richest flow of the heart, the deepest 
lessons of wisdom, all translated so well by 
Mr Hedge and his friends, that ihey seem 

It is the history— In part the secret his- ^q have been first written by masters of the 

who, by the greatness of her spirifwas wor- 

English tongue "— TAe City Item. 

We have read the book with rare plea 
\ sure, and have derived not less information 

wno, py me greainessoi ner spirii was wor- > , ' . „ ir ■ ; j, „; .,- 

thy to be the wife of the soaring NapoKon. p^an enioy^ienX.^^-Kmckerboocer. 
It combines all the value of authentic his- \ " The selections are judicious ard tasteful, 
tory with the absorbing inieresl of an auto- < the biographies well writlec anu compie- 
biography or exciting romance." — Item, / hensive." — Inquirer 





Complete in 2 vols. 12mo., 

Wiih IS Steel Portraits in Military Costume. 


Napoleon, Jourdan, Serrurier, Lannes, 
Biune, IV-rignon, Oudinot, Soult, Davoust, 
Massena, Murat, Mortier, Nay, Poniatow- 
ftki, Grouchy, Bessieres, Earthier, Souchet, 
J5t Cyr, Victor, Moncey, Marmont, Mac- 
donald, Bavuadotte, Augereau, Lefebvre, 
Kellermann. j 

The biographies are twenty-seven in j 
number— Napoleon and his twenty-six 
marshals, bemg all those created by him — 
and therefore these pages have a complete- 
ness about them which no other work of a 
similar design possesses 

The style is clear ard comprehensive, 
and the book may be relied upon for histo- 
rical accuracy, as the materials have been 
diawn from sources the most authentic. 
The Conversations of Napoleon, with Mon- 
tholon, Gourgaud, Las Cases and Dr. O'- 
Meara have all been consulted as the true ; 
basis upon which the lives of Napoleon '• 
and his commanders under him should be ' 

"The article on Napoleon, which occu- 
pies tht greater pan ot the first volume, is 
written in a clear and forcible style and 
displays marked ability in the author. Par- 
ticular attention has been paid to the early 
portion of Napoleon's life, which other wri- 
ters have hurriedly dispatched as though 
they were impaiient to arrive at the opening 
glories of his great career." — A'. Y. Mirror. 

''The lives of the Marshals and their 
Chief, the military paladins of the gorgeous 
modern romance of the ' Empire,' are given 
with historic accuracy and without exag- 
geration of fact, style or language."— .BaJ- 
tirnore Patriot. 

" We have long been convinced that the 
character of Napoleon would never receive 
'even handed justice' until some impartial 
and intelligent American should undertake 
the task of weighing his merits and deme- 
rits. In the present volume this has been 
done with great judgment. We do not 
know the author of the paper on Napoleon, 
but whoever he may be, allow us to say to 
him that he has executed his duty better than 
any predecessor.''''— Evening Bulletin. 

'The style, of this work is worthy of com- 
mendation — plain, pleasing and narrative, 
the proper style of history and biography 
in which the reader does not seek fancy 
skeich?s, and dashing vivid pictures, but 
what the work professes to contain, biogra- 
phies. We commend this as a valuable 
library hook worthy of preservation as a 
work of reference, after having been read." 
— Bnlt Ajneri^an. 

"This IS the clearest, most concise, and 

most interesting life of Napoleon and his 

marshals which has yet been given to the 

public. Tne arrangement is judicious and 


the charm of the narrative continues tin« 
broken to the end." — City Item 

"The publishers have spared no pains oi 
expense in its production, and the best talent 
in the country has been engaged on its va- 
rious histories. The style IS plain and gra- 
phic, and the reader feels that he is perusing 
true history rather than the ramblings of a 
romantic mind."— iarfy's Book. 

" The result of these joint labors is a series 
of narratives, in which the events succeed 
each other so rapidly, and are of so marvel- 
ous a cast, as to require only the method in 
arrangement and the good taste in descrip- 
tion which they have received from the 
hands of their authors. The inflated and 
the Ossianic have been happily avoided."— 
Colonization Herald. 

"Their historical accuracy is unimpeach- 
able, and many of them (the biographies) 
are stamped with originality of thought and 
opinion. The engravings are numerous and 
very fine. The book is well printed on fine 
white paper, and substantially bound. It 
deserves a place in all family and school 
libraries." — Bulletin. 

"It abounds in graphic narratives of bat- 
tles, anecdotes of the world-famed actors, 
and valuable historical information."— iSicA- 
mond Inquirer. 

" We receive, therefore, with real plea- 
sure, this new publication, having assurance 
that great pains have been taken in the pre- 
paration of each individual biography, and 
especially in collating the various authori- 
ties upon the early histoty of the Emptror. 
There appears to be nowhere any attempt 
to blind the reader by dazzlaig epithets, and 
the accuracy of construction throughout is 
highly creditable to the editor." — Commer- 
cial Advertiser N. Y. 

" The style is simplicity itself, wholly free 
from the amusing pomposity and absurd in- 
/ flation that distinguish some of the works 
which have gone before it." 



From Designs by E. LEUTZB, 

Expressly for this Volume, 


And printed on fine Vellum paper. 

Sixth Edition. (Just ready.) 

Price, S5.00 hound in scanet, gilt edges; or 

beautifully hound by S. Moore in calf 

or Turkey morocco, $7.00. 

"This is really a splendid book, and one ol 
the most magnificent of Carey & Hart's colleo 
tion of "The Illustrated Poets.'"— J/: S. Gaz 

"The 'getting up' of this edition is credit* 
able in the highest degree to the publishers 
and the fine arts of the country. The paper 
binding, and the engravings are all of the 
very best kind."»-/«2wirer and Courier. 



Cowjplete in One Volume, 12 wo. 

" The object of this work is to ' catch the > 
manners living as they rise' in connection? 
with the anta-fonisms of the present day — S 
^novelties ivhich disturb the peace'' — as Swe- 5 
denborgianism, Transcendentalism, Fou-s 
rierism, and other isms. The author has ] 
made these pages the vehicle of valuable^ 
information on all the topics of which he I 
has treated." t 

" Peter, as our readers may recollect, sold ? 
his shadow to a Gentleman in Black, and? 
upon this fable the American adventures > 
are founded. The author, wtioever ne may ^ 
be, has read much, and oeen a* least "a^ 
looker on in Venice,' .f not a participator < 
of the follies of fash'.onable life. < 

"The theoJogicbi and political criticism > 
i9 inwoven wjTl. a tale o^ fashionable life,? 
and the read>-,r become*' not a little interest- ? 
ed in the heroine. Mrs Smith, who certainly > 
must ha/e been a lemarkable woman. Il> 
is nesay publi5h*"U, and will be extensively > 
read." — BulltVa. \ 

"'We shai". be irreatly mistaken if this;; 
book does not kick up a whole cloud of^ 
dust."- The City Itefn. i 

** The work is characterized by mucht 
learning and sincere leeling." — N. Y. Mirror. ? 

" One of the most entertaining works we ? 
have read for many a day. as well as one? 
of the best written. Who the author is we I 
know not; but we do know that the book^ 
■will meet with a rapid sale wherever an ^ 
inkling of its character leaks out. For< 
watering places, or anywhere, during the I 
hot weather, it is worth its weight in— gold 
we almost said. It is full of everything of 
the best, and you can scarcely open it at 
random without sinking upon some sketch 
or dialogue to enchain the attention." — Ger- 
mantoivn Telegraph. 

"His stock of knowledge is large; and as 
his conscience is rectified by Christian' 
principle, and his heart beats in uni.son' 
with the riglit and the true, he uses his trea-! 
sures of information only for good purposes. ! 

'•The book belongs to that class of novels'. 
which make an interesting story the me-i 
dium for the communication of important 
truth. In many respects it is a peculiar 
work, differing from all others in both de- 
sign and execution, and leaving the impres- 
sion that it is the product of a mind of no 
ordinary power. * * ♦ * 

" Those who love to think and/eeZ. as the 
result of truthful thought, will read the book 
with interest and profit."— iie/ecfcr ^ Watch- \ 
man. \ 

"A rare book. Who iu the world wrote | 
it! Here are nearly five hundred pages ( 
with gems on every one of them. The \ 
satire is equal to that of Don Quixote or 
Asmodeus. The hits at society in this i 
country are admirable and well pointed. > 
The humbugs of the day are skillfully < 

shown up. and the morals of the book sen 
unexceptionable. The author cannot long 
escape detection, in spite of his shadowy 
concealment, and if a new practitioner he 
will jump to the head of his profession al 
unce." — Godey''s Lady^s Book. 

"We a»e prepared to say, that Peter 
rfchlemihl is an exceedingly clear and 
well-written work — that the author has 
displayed a considerable amount of book 
lore in its composition — that the story is in- 
teresting and instructive — that we have 
Deen entertained and edified by its perusal, 
and that it possesses merits of more than 
ordinary character. We cordially recom- 
mend it to the reading community, since we 
are sure that they will be benefitted as well 
as entertained by the revelation? contained 
in the pages of Peler.— The National Era. 

"A strangely conceived and ably executed 
work."— iV. O Coin. Times. 

"The work forms a consecutive tale, all 
along which runs a vein of severe satire, 
and which at eveiy step is illustrated by a 
vast deal of valuable information, and the 
inculcation of sound principles of morality 
and religion. It is a work which is adapted 
to do good, suited to all intelligent general 
readers, and a pleasant companion for the 
scholar's leisure hours." — N. Y. Recorder. 

"This is a very remarkable production, 
and unless we are greatly deceived, it is 
from a new hand at the literary forge. We 
have read every page of this thick volume, 
and have been strongly reminded of South- 
ey's great book. The Doctor. The author of 
this work must be a man of close observa- 
tion, much research, and if we are accurate 
in our estimate, he is a layman, * * ♦ • 
This same book will make a sensation i.i 
many quarters, and will unquestionably 
create a name and reputation for its autLar, 
who forthwith takes his place among liie 
best and keenest writers of our country. * * 
We commend it to the gravest and gayest oi 
our readers, and assure them that our own 
copy will not go off our table until another 
winter has passed away.''— A'. Y. AUianct 
and Visitor. 

"The volume cannot fail to be read exten- 
sively and do good The popular '•isms'' ol 
the day, their folly and injurious tendency, 
are descanted upon with mingled g-avuy 
and humor, and considerable caient and 
truthful feeling are shown in the discus- 
sion. Whether me book have an immediate 
run or not, the soundness of its views, deli- 
vered with some quaintness of style, will 
insure it permanent popularity." — N. York 
Commercial Advertiser. 

"Light, sportive, graceful raillery, ex- 
presse'd witli terse and delicate ease. » * * 

"It is a novel of fun, with grave notes by 
wav of ballast." — Christian Examiner* 


Now ready, hi 1 vol. post 8vo., price $1 25, witli Portraits, 




Biographical Sketches of all the Jflajor and JBrig-adier Cfenerals 

who acted under commissions from Cong-ress during" 

the Revolutionary W^ar. 

We hail these beautiful volumes with 
ondisguised delight. They supply, in a dig- 
aiiied and comprehensive form, valuable 
information, wluch will be sought with avi- 
dity, not only by the American public, but 
by the w^orld at large. The want of a work 
of positive authority on this subject has long 
been felt and deplored. The enterprise and 
good taste of Messrs. Carey and Hart have 
given us two handsome and reliable vo- 
lumes, betraying industry and talent, and 
replete with facts of the deepest interest. 
There is no idle romancing — no school-boy 
attempts at rhetorical display; on the con- 
trary, the work is written in a clear, un- 
affected, business-like, yet beautiful man- 
ner. The authors had the good sense to 
think that the stirring events of "the times 
that tried men's souls," needed no embellish- 
ment. It is a complete, impartial, and well 
written history of the American Revolu- 
tion, and, at the same time, a faithful bio- 
graphy of the most distinguished actors in 
that great strrggle, whose memories are 
enshrined in nur hearts. The typographical 
execution of the work is excellent, and the 
sixteen portraits on steel are remarkably 
well done. The first volume is embel- 
lished with a lite-like portrait of Washing- 
ton mounted on his charger, from Sully's 
picture, " Quelling the Whisky Riots.'" This 
is, we believe, the first engraving taken 
from it. There are biographies of eighty- 
eight Generals, beginning with "the Father 
of his country," and closing with General 
Maxwell. To accomplish this task, we 
a/e assured that "the accessible published 
and unpublished memoirs, correspondence, 
and other materials relating to the period, 
have been carefully examined and faith- 
fully reflected." We earnestly commend 
this w^ork. It w^ill be found an unerring 
record of the most interesting portion of 
3ur history. — The City Item. 

This work differs from Mr. Headley's, 
having nearly the same title, in many im- 
portant particulars ; and as an historical book ; 
is much superior. — N. Y. Com. Advertiser, 

Certainly the most comprehensive and 
individualized ^^'ork that has ever been 
published on the subject — each member of 
the great dramatis personcR of the Revolu- 
tionary tragedy, standing out in bold and 
"sculptured" relief, on his own glorious 
deeds. — Saturday Courier. 

This work is a very different affair from 

the flashy and superficial book of the Rev. 

.J. T. Headley, entitled "Washington and 

the Generals." It appears without the 


name of any author, because it is the joim 
production of many of the mosi eminent 
writers in the country, resident in various 
states in the Union, and having, from the 
circumstance, access to original materials 
in private hands, and to public archives not 
accessible to any one individual without 
long journey and much consumption of 
time. The result, however, is a complete 
and authentic work, embracing biographi- 
cal notices of every one of the Revolution- 
ary Generals. The amount of fresh and ori- 
ginal matter thus brought together in these 
moderate-sized volumes, is not less sur- 
prising than it is gratifying to the historical 
reader. This will become a standard book 
of reference, and will maintBin its place in 
libraries long after the present generation 
shall have enjoyed the gratification of pe- 
rusing its interesting pages, exhibiting in a 
lively style tlie personal adventures and 
private characters of the sturdy defenders 
of American Independence. — Scoti^s Weekly 

The author's name is not given, and from 
what we have read, we presume that va- 
rious pens have been employed in these in- 
teresting biographies. This is no disadvan- 
tage, but, on the contrary, a decided benefit, 
for it insures greater accuracy than could be 
looked for in such a series of biographies 
written by one person in a few mouths. 
The volumes are published in a very hand- 
some style. The first sixty pages are oc- 
cupied with the biography of Washington, 
which is written with force and elegance, 
and illustrated by an original view of the 
character of that great man. * * * The 
number of the biographies in these volumes 
is much greater than that of Mr. Headley's 
work. There are eighty-eight distinct sub- 
jects. —iV. y. Mirror. 

We have read a number of the articles, 
find them to be written with ability, and to 
possess a deep interest. The author has 
manifested excellent judgment in avoiding 
all ambitious attempts at what is styled 
Jine writing ; but gives a connected recital 
of the important events in the lives of his 
heroes. The work will be highly interest- 
ing and valuable to all readers — particu- 
larly so to youth, who are always attracted 
by biographies. If a father wishes to pre- 
sent to his sons noble instances of uncor- 
rupted and incorruptible patriotism, let hira 
place this work in their hands. It should 
have a place in every American library, 
and is among the most valuable books of th« 
season. — Baltimore Amsrican. 








With 170 Engravings on Wood. 

This work is based upon the most recknt liscoveries in Science and impbovements 
IN AEflr, and presents a thorough exposition of the principles and practice of the trade in 
all their minutiae. The experience and ability of the author have enabled him to produce 
A MORE co.viPLETE AND COMPREHENSIVE BOOK upon the subject than any extant. The w^hole 
arrangement is designed with a view to the scientific enlightenment, as well as the in- 
Btrucion of the manufacturer, and its contents are such as to render it not only A stand- 
ard GUIDE BOOK TO THE OPERATIVE, but also EH autlioritativc work of reference for the 
Chemist and the Student. 

An examination of the annexed table of contents will show the invaluable usefulness 
of the work, the practical features of which are illustrated by upwards of one hundred 


The following synopsis embraces only the main heads of each Chapter and Paragraph. 

Chap. 1. hitroductory Remarks. 

" 2. The Dignity of the Art and its Re- '. 
lations to Scietice. [ 

" 3. Affinity and Cheonical Equiva- \ 
tents: — Explanatio7i of. 

*' 4. Alkalies.— Lnne, Foiassa, Soda, 

•* 6. Alkalimetry. 

1' 6 J.cids.— Carbonic. Sulphuric, Hy- 
drochloric, Nitric, Boracic. 

•' 7. Origiyi and Composition of Fatty 

" 8. Saponifable Fats.— Oils of Al- 
mond, Olive, iMustard, Beech, 
Poppy, Rapeseed, Grapeseed; 
Nut Oil, Linseed Oil, Castor 
Oil, Palm Oil, (processes for 
bleaching it;) Coco Butter, 
Nutmeg Butter, Galum Butter, 

" 9. Adidteration of Oils. 

" 10. Action of Acids upon Oils. 

•' 11. Volatile Oils.— The Properties of, 
and their applicability to the 
Manufacture of Soaps. 

" 12. Volatile Oils :— Then Origin and 
Composition ; Table of their 
Specific Gravities. 

" 13. Essential Oils:— The Adultera- 
tions of and the modes of de- 
tecting them. 

* 14. Wax: — Its Properties and Cora- 


* 15. Resins : — Their Properties and 

Composition; Colophony and 

* 16. Animal Fats and Oils: — Lard, 

Mutton Suet, Beef-tallow, Beef- 
marrow, Bone-fat, Soap-grease, 
Oil-lees. Kitchen-stuff, Human- 
fat, Adipocirej Butter, Fish-oil, 

Spermaceti, Delphinine, Neats 
feet Oil. 
Chap. 17. The Constituents of Fats, theii 
Properties and Composition: 
Siearine, Stearic Acid and 
Salts; Alargarine, Margaric 
Acid and Sails; Olein, Oleic 
Acid and Salts: Cetine, Cetylic 
Acid ; I'hocenine, Phocenic 
Acid and Salts; Butyrine, Bu- 
tyric Acid and Salts; Caproic, 
Capric Acid; Hircine, Hircic 
Acid ; Ciiolestetine. 
" 18. Basic Constituents of Fats : — 
Glycerin Eihal. 

19. Theory of Sap onif cation. 

20. Utensils :—'A\ea.m Series. Buga- 
dief -or Ley Vats, Soap Frames, 
Ca irons. &;c. 

21- The Sysiemized arrangement for 
a Soap Factory. 

22. iJewar^s, — [-"reliminary to the 
Process for Making Soap. 

23. Hard -Soaps .•—" Cutting Pro- 
cess;" Comparative Value of 
Oils and Fats as Soap ingredi- 
ent, with Tables ; White, INIot- 
tled. Marseilles, Yellow. Yaii- 
kee Soaps: English Yellow and 
While Soap, Coco Soap. Palm 
Soap, Butter Soap, English 
Windsor Soap, French Wind- 
sor Soap. Analyses of Soaps. 

Process for Makitig Soap : — Pre- 
paration of the Leys, Kmpa- 
tage, Relargage, Coction, Mot- 
tling. Cooling. 

Extemporaneous Soaps : — Lard, 
Medicinal, " Hawes," "Ma 
quer." and " Darcet's" Soaps 

Silicated Soaps : —Y\\nl, Sand, 
" Dunn's," " Davia's'' Soaps. 




Chap. 27. Pitent Soaps.— Bexlnne, Salina- ' 
ted Soaps, Soap from Hardened 

" 28. Anderson's Improvements. 

" 29. Soft Soaps: — Process for Making, 
Crown Soaps, " Savon Vert." 

" 30. 2%e Conversion of Soft Soaps into 
Hard Soaps. 

" 31. Frauds in Soap Making and 
Means for their Detection. 

" 32. Earthy Soaps, Marine Soap, Me- 
tallic Soaps. Ammoniacal Soap. 

*• 33. Soap from Volatile 0(7s; — Siar- 
ky's Soap, Action of Alkalies 
upon Essential Oils. 

*♦ 34. "Savons Acides,''^ or Oleo-acidu- 
lated Soap. 

•• 35. Toilet Soaps.- — Purification of 
Soaps, Admixed Soap, Cinna- 
mon, Rose, Orange - flower, 
Bouquet, Benzoin, Cologne, 
Vanilla, Musk, Naples, Kasan 
Soaps, Flotant Soaps, Trans- 
parent Soaps Soft Soaps, Sha- 
ving Creatn; Remarks. 

« 36. Areometers and Thermometers : — 
their use and value. 

« 37. Weights ayid Measures. 

" 38. Candles. 

" 39. Illu7ni nation. 

" 40. Philosophy of Flame. 

«' 41. Raw Material for Candles : — 

Modes of Rendering Fata, 
" Wilson's Steam Tanks. 
Chap. 42. Wicks: — Their use and action. 
Cutting Machines. 

" 43. Of the Manufacture of Candles. 

" 44. XJtpped CanrfZes;— Improved Ma- 
chinery for facilitating thoii 

" 45. Material of Candles :—Vtocesn 
for Improving its Quality. 

" 46. Moulded Candies; — Improved 
Machinery for facilitating their 
Manufacture.— "Vaxeme," ot 
Summer Candles. 

« 47. Stearic ^cid CandZes:— Adamant- 
ine and Star Candles. 
\ " 43. Stearin Catidles : — Bidiconnoi'a 
and Morfit's Process. 

' 49. Sperm Candles. 
' 60. Falmi7ie, Palm Wax, Coco Can- 
* 51. PTaa; CanrfZes.-— Mode of Bleach- 
ing the Wax, with drawings of 
the apparatus requisite there- 
for; Bougies, Cierges, Flam- 
' 52. Patent CancZZes .■ — " A zotized," 
Movable Wick and Goddard's 
Candles; Candles on Continu 
ous Wick; Water and Hour 
Bougies, Perfumed Candles. 
53. Concluding Remarks. Vocabu- 


Terms.— The book is handsomely printed, with large type, and on good thick paper, 
in an octavo volume of upwards of five hundred pages, the price of which is !B5 per 
copy, neatly bound in cloth gilt, or it will be forwaided by mai\ free of postage in flexible 
covers, on receiving a remittance of 3^5. (A limited number only printed.) 

Two Volumes, twelve hundred pages, embellished with numerous 
Engravings. New Edition. Price $4, cloth, gilt. 




Earliest Settlements of the Inland part of Pennsylvania, from the days of the 


iixhibit Society in its Changes of Manners and Customs, and the City and Country 
in their Local Changes and Improvements, 


lember of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, and Honorary Member of the Historical 
Societies of New York and Massachusetts. 

Revie-w Notices.— "This is a greaj curi- , 
Obity. Such a book has never before been 1 
produced in the United States. The Annalist ! 
■will enjoy a peerless fame — we trust his work I 
will be universally bought and read." '■ No ; 
American who can read should be without a ; 
copy of this invaluable contribution to our ; 
early American history." "It seems to con- ; 
vey us back to other times — we see things as \ 
they were — minutely U7id particularly, and '■ 
not as presented in stately and buskined I 

history, in one general view — vague, glim- 
mering, indistinct." " This is in truth a work 
without example for its imitation, and with 
equal truth it is in execution a work su% 
generis." "It is a museum that will never 
cease to attract. It desiTves the gratitude 
of the country and the patronage of the 
reading community. It will furnish the 
historian, the biographer, and the natriotic 
orator, with matter to adorn and beautify 
their productions." 






Compiled from the Papers of the late Rooert H. Baird. 

In One Volume, Cloth Gilt, Price $1. 

"This is a practical age, and it demands ^ " 'The American Cotton Spinner and Mana- 
practical books. Of this class is the manual ? gers' and Carders' Guide,' a practical treatise 
before us, addressing itself to a rapidly grow- ^ on cotton-spinning, giving the dimensions 
ing interest among us, and one, upon the ^ and speed of machinery, (iraught and twist 
prosperity of which depends, in a great mea i calculations, kc, with notices of recent im- 
eure, the destiny of the South. We have too > provements, together with rules and ex- 
long committed the fatal error of allowing ^ amples for making changes in the size of 
Northern manufactories to convert our staple ^ roving and yarn. This work is compiled 
Into the fabrics we require for use. losing by < from papers of the late Robert H. Baird, well 
the process all the expenses of a double trans- e known as an expert cotton-spinner, and will 
portation, the profits of manufacturing, and / prove of great service to cotton-growers, mill- 
Bundry incidental costs of interest and ex- /owners, and cotton-S]iinners. This book will 
change. With the increasing attention to \ undoubtt^dly meet with an extensive sale in 

manufactures in the South, arises the need 
of information upon all their appliances and 
workings, and much that is valuable of this 
natui-e is found in the book before iis. Mr. 
Baird was an expert and successful cotton- 
spinner. His experience and observations 
are here afforded to his fellow-operatives, 
combined with the modern improvements in 
mechanics and methods. No intelligent man 

the South, where attention is beginning to 
be turned in earnest to manufacturing aa 
well as growing cotion."—Drawing-rGom 

"This is one of the most interesting and 
valuable of the many excellent little treatises 
on mechanical and manufacturing pursuits 
which have been published by Mr. Hart. 
The construction and working of a cotton- 

at the present day builds without 'counting 5 factory are thoroughly explained. Build- 
the cost,' or enters upon a field of labour ] ings, main gearing, water-wheels, picking 
without a comprehensive knowledge of its \ and spreading machines, cards and carding, 
capabilities and requirements. To those \ drawing-frames, speeders, throstles and mule 
proposing to erect small factories, or now / spinning, are elaborately discussed, and to 
conducting them, the treatise before us could I those engaged in the production of cotton 
not fail tobe of service, if well studied, and j goods, the volume must be exceedingly use- 
to such we commend it." — Southern Literary | ful. To political economists and others, who 
Gazette. i feel an interest in the great progress of our 

" Had we space we might go on to state a \ country, the historical and statistical portions 
number of other equally interesting and im- \ of the book will also be of value, 
portant facts. The work from which much \ '"In 1770, there were exported to Liver- 

of the foregoing is taken, is published by Mr. 
A. Hart, and was compiled chiefly fi-om the 
papers of the late Robert H. Baird, well 
known as an expert cotton-spinner. It is 
gratifying to see that so respectable a house 
as that of Mr. Hart has undertaken the pub- 

pool from New York three bags of cotton 
Iwool; from Virginia and 3Iaryland. four 
;bags; and from North Carolina, three bar- 
; rels. Last year England paid S71,9«4,616 to 
; the United States for raw cotton, which sum 

is exclusive of that paid to other cotton-grow- 

lication of books of this kind, for we believe / ing nations. In 1790 the first cotton-mill 
that our operatives should possess a theoreti- ^ was erected in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. In 
cal as well as practical knowledge of their ^ 1850 the number of spindles in operation 
Beveral trades. This work gives the dimen- ;; was computed at 2..500.000.' These facts are 
sions and speed of machinery, draught and \ among the most signal evidences of the un- 

twist calculations, with notices of the most ; 
recent improvements. It must prove an in- ■ 
valuable hand-book to the manufacturer." — \ 
Germantown Telegraph. ' 

" As the treatise now stands, it is a most 
complete and practical guide in the spinning 
of cotton. It gives the dimensions and speed 
of machinery, draught and twist calcula- 
tions; together with rules and examples for 
making changes in the size and number of 
roving yarn. The work will be found of 
value, equally by operatives and mill-owners. 
It is issued in a very neat style." — Arthur's 
Some Gazette. 

exampled progress and prosperity of the 
country, and cannot be considered without 
emotions of pride and gratification." — N. T, 
Commercial Advertiser. 

'• It is compiled from the papers of the late 
Robert H. Baird, well known as an expert 
cotton-spinner, and forms a practical treatise 
relative to spinning in all its departments 
and relations, the dim.ensions and speed f)f 
machinery, draught and twist calculations, 
&c. &c., which cannot but commend itself to 
the favourable attention of all connected 
with this important manufacturing inte- 
rest."— iVb/'i/^ Americaji,. 




Containing the, Practice and Principles of 

Working and Making Steel. 



Author of " Manufacture of Iron," &c. 


With Engravings, cloth gilt. Price 75 cents. 

" The author of this book is a practical 
mining engineer, and what he has to say on 
the subject of which he treats, is therefore 
entitled to consideration." — Com. Advertiser. 

" A valuable and almost indispensable 
hand book for all workers in steel and iron, 
euch as blacksmiths, cutlers, die sinkers, and 
manafacturers of various kinds of hardware. 
The man of science, as well as the artisan, 
will find much valuable information in Mr. 
Overman's Book." — Arthur'^g Home Gazette. 

"Carefully prepared, and therefore well 
adapted for the purpose. It is illustrated by 
figures explanatory of apparatus and ma- 
chinery." — North American. 

" A. Hart, Philadelphia, has published 
'The Manufacture of Steel,' by Frederick 
Overman. This work is not only of interest 
to blacksmiths and workers in steel and 
iron, but to men of science and art. It is a 
most thorough book, commencing with forg- 
ing, and treating the subject throughout in 
an able manner." — Boston Eoeniiig Gazette. 



By Frederick Overman, 


\2mo, 252 pages, cloth gilt. Price 88 cents. 

"The moulding of iron for useful purposes 
is one of the most extensive pursuits of so- 
ciety. Nevertheless, there are comparatively 
few works which present a clear, intelligible, 
and simple statement of the branches of this 
art, so as to be readily understood by all. 
The present work seems to supply this de- 
ficiency." — Scientific American. 

" This volume is prepared on the same 
plan as that on Cotton Spinning, and has a 
number of wood-engravings. It must prove 
invaluable to the iron-master. It is certainly 
a book that has long been needed, aud we 
know that it will be extensively circulated." 
^Germantown Telegraph. 

" The ' Moulder's and Founder's Pocket 
Guide,' published by A. Hart, is a treatise on 
moulding and founding in green sand, dry 
sand, loam, and cement, the moulding of ma- 
chine-frames, mill-gear, hollow-ware, orna- 
ments, trinkets, bells, and statues, with re- 
ceipts for alloys, varnishes, colours, &c., by 
Frederick Overman, mining engineer. The 
work is illustrated with forty-two wood-cuts, 
and it gives plain and practical descriptions 
of these most useful arts." — Public Ledger. 






Complete in one volume. 326 pages, cloth gilt. 
PRICE §1. 
The Year-Book of Facts in Science and 
Art, exhibiting the most important dis- 
coveries and improvements of the past year, 
in mechanics and the useful arts, natural 
philosophy, electricity, chemistry, zoology, 
and botany, geology and geography, meteor- 
ology and astronomy. By John- Timbs, 
editor of the 'Arcana of Science and Art,' in 
one neat volume; price $1. 

" It contains a mine of information in mat- 
ters of Science and Art." — Saturday Gazette. 
"There is a great deal of well-digested in- 
formation in this volume, exhibiting the 
most important discoveries in the Sciences 
and Arts, during the past year. In looking 
over it, one is surprised at the progress mak- 
ing in these branches, and in order to keep 
up with the age, such a book as this is abso- 
lutely necess&r J. "—Evening Bulletin. 

'' Such a volume commends itself suffi- 
ciently to public favour liy its title. The 
importance of possessing it is apparent at a 
glance, since the knowledge of a single one 
i of these facts, or new discoveries in science 
i and the useful arts, may very possibly be 
] worth in cash to the buyer ten times the 

< price of tbe book.'" — Scoffs Weelly. 

< " The ' if ear-Book of Facts' is another of 
[ Mr. Hart's excellent publications. It is a 
/ reprint from the London edition, and ex- 
^ hibits ^lie most important discoveries and 
; improv iments of the year lb51, in arti, 
> sciences, and mechanics. It is just tbe 

1 volume to have handy to take up when a 
^ few sj are moments present themselves, 
\ which might otherwise be unimproved." — 
\ Boston Evening Gazette. 

^ "The 'Year-Book of Facts' is a work of 
/ established character, and American readers 

2 will feel indebted to Mr. Hart for reproduc- 
l ing it in a convenient and handsome form, 

rendering it access'ble to all purchasers on 
this side of the water. ' —N. American. 


Dictionary of Architecture! 

A Directory of Architecture,, De- 
scriptive, Topographical, Decorative, Th-'o- 
rttical, aiid Mechanical, alphabet'caUy 
arranged, familiarly explained, ami 
adapted to the comprehension of 



Illustrated by one thousand Drawings ot 
Subjects referred to In the work, 

Compilete in 3 volumes Svo., hound in two, 

" A most excellent work for nracticaj men." 





New Edition, Enlarged. 1 Vol. VZmo., 400 \ 
pages. • 

PRICE $1. j 

" Miss Leslie's ' Complete Cookery' is per- J 
haps better known than any similar collec- > 
tion of receipts. The yery elegant Tolume ? 
before us is designed as a sequel to it, and ^ 
should be its companion in every family. It i 
contains directions for cooking, preserving, | 
pickling; and commencing with soups, gives < 
new receipts for every course of an excellent j 
dinner, to the jellies and confectionary of the ' 
dessert. Besides this, there are directions ^ 
for perfumery, miscellaneous receipts, etc., ) 
and the celebrated ' Indian Meal Book,' < 
which embraces every method in which that i 
most valuable staple can be prepared. Our s 
readers are no strangers to the accuracy and \ 
minuteness of Miss Leslie's receipts, as, since | 
the first number of the Gazette, she has con- | 
tributed to our housekeepers' department. 
This is the more noticeable, that she has no ^ 
other similar engagement with any family 
paper; The new receipts in this volume are 
admirable. Many of them are modified from 
French sources, though foreign terms and 
designations are avoided. The publisher has 
brought it out in an extremely tasteful 
style." — Saturday Gazette. 

"Mr. A. Hart, Fourth and Chestnut sts., 
has just published a new edition of Miss 
Leslie's Receipt Book for Cooking. This is a 
truly popular work. Thousands of copies 
have already been disposed of, and other 
thousands will be needed. It contains direc- 
tions for cooking, preserving, pickling, and 
preparing almost every description of dish ; 
also one hundred and twenty recipes for pre- 
paring farina, Indian meal, fancy tea-cakes, 
marmalades, &c. We know of no more use- 
ful work for families." — Inquirer. 


A 3fethod of Horsemanship, founded upon new 

Principles : including the Brealdng and 

Training of Horses, xuith iristructions 

for obtaining a good Scat. 

Bistory, Structure, & Statistics 
of Plank Roads 




Civil Engineer on the Hudson River Railroad. 

With remarks on Roads in General, by F. 

G. Skinner; and a Letter on Plank 

Roads, by Hon. Chas. E. Clarke. 

Price 50 Cents. 

"Those who desire information upon the 
Bubject so fully treated of in this pamphlet, 
could rot do better than purchase and read 
)tt"— Saturday Pod. 



Cloth Gilt. Price $1.S5. 

"Here is something which looks like a 
system of horsemanship. "We have often la- 
mented over the wrongs done to horses, and 
wondered if there were no better means of 
conveying our wishes to the animals than 
by brutally belabouring them with a whip. 
Baucher's method has one great merit; it is 
humane. His instructions are conveyed by 
a series of gentle checks and impulses, which 
so far from tiring the horse, only tend to 
bring out his latent powers and better in- 
stincts, through an intelligent course of ex- 
ercise. Baucher's method has proved highly 
successful in France, not only with the trick- 
horses of the ring and the gentleman's hack- 
ney, but with the cavalrj' of the army. It 
has also been extensively adopted in the 
Prussian service; and Baucher received a 
diamond snufi'-box, and other marks of 
favour, from the King of Prussia, together 
with many commendatory letters from the 
ofiicers of his army. "VVe understand, from 
the translator's preface, that all the astonish- 
ment which we bestowed on Gen. Welch's 
horse ' May -fly,' Madame Loyo and her stud, 
was due to the instructions of Baucher. No 
further proofs are needed of the practical 
workings of a system which can perform 
such wonders with horses. The present 
translation is finely gotten up, and contains 
many neat illustrative engravings. The 
translator's part appears to be well and 
carefully done, while its value is increased 
by a number of original notes, explaining the 
technical meaning of the French stable-terms. 
A book on a subject so interesting to eques- 
trians cannot fail to be popular." — Inquirer. 

"This work is certainly calculated to pro- 
duce a sensation among those ' whose talk ia 
of horses.' It is singular that the present 
should be the first English translation of a 
work which has passed through nine editions 
in Paris, has been reprinted again and again 
in Belgium, and has been translated into 
both Dutch and German. Of the great value 
of Baucher's system no one, who has given it 
attention, can have a reasonable doubt. Its 
great merit is that it can properly be called 
a system based upon admitted principles — • 
not a collection of unphilosophical rules — • 
and that it is capable of the most extended 
development. Even Baucher, a man of no 
common vanity, confesses that by pursuing 
his method, the horse's education may be 
carried far beyond any result which he has 
yet obtained. Further developments would 
indeed be profitable to the circus, and curi- 
ous to the naturalist, as proving the extent 
of the animal's sagacity, under a proper. plan 
' of iustxuQtioia.."— Bulletin. 


Anne Boleyn : A Tragedy. 

Author of Calaynos, cfc. 



" On a former occasion we spoke in high 
terms of the tragedy of Cabiynos, and our 
judgment has been affirmed by some of the 
ablest critics of England and America. In 
the former country, it was put upon the 
Btage and met with distinguished approval. 
This is a compliment of which the young 
author has just cause to feel proud. But 
the tragedy of Calaynos, though ably writ- 
ten, and abounding with passages of thrill- 
ing interest, will never enjoy the measure 
of popularity to which 'Anne Boleyn' is 
destined." — City Item. 

" The tragedy of ' Anne Boleyn' is, in very 
essence, a stage play — full of incident and 
replete with brilliant dialogue. The indi- 
viduality of character, throughout, is admi- 
rably sustained. From the very first scene, 
which introduces Norfolk on the stage, we 
Decome interested in the plot, and so con- 
tinue to the sad denouement of this tragic 
history. Henry VIII., though somewhat in 
a new dress, is in perfect relevance with 
history. Thomas Wyatt is beautifully im- 
bodied in Mr. Boker's just and fine appreci- 
ation of this celebrated gentleman and poet, 
(iueen Anne is the principal character, and 
skilfully drawn. The exquisite tenderness 
of her language and the dignity of her grief 
touch us with that probe which reaches 
the heart through the admiration. We were 
struck with the great force and personifica- 
tion of her character, and secretly indulged 
the hope that the time might come when we 
should see it enacted by the peerless repre- 
sentative of Shakspeare's heroines — Mrs. 
Frances Anne Kemele." — Drawing-Room 

"But we might run on so all day, and 
must leave the book, with its intrinsic beau- 
ties, its clean print and fine paper, at once, 
and without fault-finding— unless it be, with 
its red, instead of neutral-tinted covers — 
after congratulating the author, not on the 
laurels it is sure to win him, but on the joy 
and enlargement he must have received in 
its creation, and on the reaction upon his 
own mind of its healthful influences on 
the minds of others."— iVewarZc Daily Ad- 

" We must commend these passages, with 
the rest of the play, to the good taste of the 
reader, and hasten to an award of praise, 
which we unhesitatingly pronounce upon 
the poet and his work. We are sure he has 
not, as yet, mined his richest ore, and that 
the future will verify this assertion. 

" ' Anne Boleyn' is printed in luxurious 
type upon exquisite paper, and is prettily 
uod tastefully bound; so that altogether it 

reflects high credit upon the publisher, the 

su scessor of the late firm of Carey & Hart."— 
Saturday Gazette. 

" ' Anne Boleyn' is better than < Calaynos,' 
toth positively and relatively: positively, be- 
';ause it is of a bolder and wider range, and 
evinces more artistic skill; relatively, be- 
cause notwithstanding it is subsequent to 
'Calaynos,' and therefore was expected to 
surpass it, its excellence is even greater than 
tbis circumstance required. In the past year, 
Mr. Boker's mind has made a vast stride. He 
has gained confidence in himself; his range 
of thought has widened and deepened ; and 
he has acquired alike greater dramatic 
strength and a finer perception of the poeti- 
cal. The present tragedy is founded on the 
melancholy story of Anne Boleyn, the second 
wife of Henry the Eighth. The 
characters are the King, the Duke of Noi.>- 
folk, the Queen, her rival Jane Seymour, 
Wyatt the poet, Wyatt's sister, Lord Roch- 
ford, and Mark Smeaton : and the action of 
the play embraces the interval between the 
commencement of the King's passion for 
Jane Seymour, and the execution of Anne 
Boleyn. In depicting the characters, as well 
as in narrating the incidents of his drama, 
Mr. Boker has adhered mainly to history; 
and in this displayed his good sense ; for the 
closing career of Anne Boleyn is a drama in 
real life. Henry the Eighth, Jane Seymour, 
Norfolk, and Wyatt are drawn with equal 
truth and power." — Evening Bulletin. 

" We would make extracts from this work, 
did our limits permit. It is one eminently 
worthy of perusal ; and as the production of 
a native author, will exalt our national lite- 
rature. As we peruse it again, with more 
care, we may present extracts; but in the 
mean time, we advise our readers to possess 
themselves with the book, and regale their 
tastes by an entire perusal of its contents."— 




Author of " Pelham, Eiemi," c£c. 

"In originality of conception, terseness, 
vigour, and melodiousness of diction, novelty 
of imagery, keenness of satire, and purity 
and elevation of sentiment, this work wJl 
bear comparison with the best poems in the 
English language. We hazard the opi}-.i(Hi 
that posterity will place it by the side of tPM 
best of Byron's poetic tales. The author's 
skill in the analysis of character is well 
exhibited in his sketches of the Duke of 
Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, O'Oonnell, and 
others. His descriptive powers find expres- 
sion in some exquisite passages. The popu- 
larity of the work, both here and in England, 
may be inferred from the fact that this is thp 
third American from the fourth Loudon ed 
[ tion:'— Weekly Gazette. 


Til FETn MiiTRUiinistrii nfljt fmnlM, 



Author of "Calaynos," "Anne Bo- 
leyn," "The Betrothal," «&c. 

ONE VOL. 18M0., cloth GILT. 


"It always gives us pleasxire to -welcome 
a rfew volume of poems, by this author, to 
our table. He is one of the few Americans 
who write with care. He is, moreover, a 
townsman. And, withal, he possesses the 
poetic faculty in a very high degree, and is 
destined to go down to future times crowned 
with 'immortal baj^s.' Indeed, iu many re- 
spects, Mr. Boker has no living rival. 

" The principal p^em in the volume before 
us is 'The Podesta's Daughter,' a dramatic 
sketch of rare merit. In compositions of this 
character, Mr. Boker excels; but he never 
published any thing superior, or, in some 
particulars, even equal to this. The story is 
that of two lovers, who, from being children 
together, become finally passionately at- 
tached. But while the youth is heir to a 
haughty lineage, the maiden is the humble 
daughter of the podesta. a disparity of rank 
that affords the author material out of which 
to weave his touching tragedy. The delicate 
skill with which the two principal characters 
are contrasted, is worthy of all praise. 

" We take leave of this volume with regret. 
Its elevated tone, its delicacy of thought, its 
chastened style, the fire of some passages, the 
sweetness of others, and last, but not least, 
the lofty ideal of womanhood which prevails 
throughout, whether in the dramatic or lyric 
parts, have sweetened, for a brief space, the 
exacting toil and dry details of a journalist's 

" The volume is very neatly issued, and 
does credit to Mr. Hart, the publisher." — 
Evening Bulletin. 



€\t DiBripliEB nf Mirtinu, 

Translated from the French of Madame 


*'If this work for youth has not a brilliant 
title, it can claim to be written by a brilliant 
woman — a woman of fine sensibilities and 
motherly sympathies, whose judgment is as 
capable of guiding as her charms are capable 
of attracting. Amidst the rest of Hart's pub- 
lications, this may be compared to a shadowy 
leaf in a brilliant chaplet of the rarest 
aowers."— Ci^i/ Item. 


(Of the JNIiddle Temple.) 




"This little book is full of rich and beauti- 
ful thoughts, and that it may speak for it- 
self, we extract the tenth conversation. Its 
teaching reminds us of ' Chauning, on Self- 
culture,' in which he enforces the love of the 
beautiful, as a source of happiness spread by 
Divine beneficence on every side, and within 
the reach of all ; a capacity of which all pos- 
sess, and which is susceptible of indefinite 
expansion. • Geology is the most imaginative 
of sciences,' says Hugh Miller, and this work 
is full of proof of the power of geological re- 
velations to elevate our conceptions of the 
grandeur and vastness of creative power, 
wisdom, and goodness." — National Intelli- 
■ gencer. 

"This little work is full of poetry— but 
poetry that every mind experiences, and by 
which every mind is influenced. It trans- 
lates the voice of nature, it makes clear 
those dictates which come from our hearts, 
where lies buried oftentimes the master-key 
of knowledge, and inculcates a love of the 
beautiful." — Boston Evening Gazette. 



As related by a Mother for the amusement 

of her Children. 




" Let every parent buy this little volume. 
The pomp and glory of these wonderful 
stories, which could even beguile the imagi- 
native mind of the radiant East, were never 
so beautifully unfolded to the view of chil- 
dren. We can fairly envy the delight of the 
child presented with the above beautiful 
edition, which is a capital specimen of the 
taste and liberality of the publishers."— Cii^/ 





I Eight Plates, Cloth gilt. 

X "Here is another book for the juveniles, 
[ that needs no puffing. All the children old 
\ enough to read such a book, will want this 
^ beautiful little volume." — Southern Literary 
i Gazette. 


T^iis day is published, in one vol. 273 pages, the ) 
Third Edition, price 60 cents, of 




"An unusually clever tale, that by its 
Sprightliness, its clear delineations «f cha- \ 
racter, and its vigorous and sparkling style, 
will afford entertainment to every class of 
readers." — Book Trade. 

" The ' Snow-Bird' elicits a thrill of deep : 
and exquisite pleasure, even exceeding that 
■which accompanied 'Linda,' which was ge- 
nerally admitted to he the hest story ever 
written for a newspaper. That was certainly 
high praise, hut 'Rena' takes precedence 
even of its predecessor, and, in both, Mrs. 
Lee Hentz has achieved a triumph of no 
ordinary kind. It is not that old associa- 
tions bias our judgment, for though from 
the appearance, years since, of the famous 
♦ Mob Cap,' in this paper, we formed an ex- 
alted opinion of the womanly and literary 
excellence of the writer, our feelings have, 
in the interim, had quite sufficient leisure to 
cool; yet after the lapse of years, we have 
continued to maintain the same literary de- 
votion to this best of our female writers. 
The two last productions of Mrs. Lee Hentz 
now fully confirm our previously formed 
opinion, and we unhesitatingly commend 
'Rena,' now published in book form by A. 
Hart, Chestnut and Fourth streets, as a 
etory which, in its varied, deep, and thrill- 
ing interest, has no superior." — Am. Courier. 

Complete in One Volume. Price 50 cents. 


.y puUished in one vol. 276 pagei. At 
Fifth Edition, price 50 cents, of 





" Mrs. Hentz has given us here a very de- 
lightful romance, illustrative of life in the 
South-west, on a Mississippi plantation. 
There is a well-wrought love-plot; the cha- 
racters are well drawn, the incidents are 
striking and novel, the denouement happy, 
and moral excellent. Mrs. Hentz may twine 
new laurels above her ' Mob Cap.' " — Evening 

" We hail with pleasure this contribution 
to the literature of the South. Works con- 
taining faithful delineations of Southern life, 
society, and scenery, whether in the garb of 
romance or in the soberer attire of simple 
narrative, cannot fail to have a salutary in- 
fluence in correcting the false impressions 
which prevail in regard to our people and 
institutions; and our thanks are due to Mrs. 
Hentz for the addition she has made to this 
department of our native literature. We 
cannot close without expressing a hope that 
'Linda' may be followed by many other 
works of the same class from the pen of its 
gifted author." — Southern Literary Gazette. 

"Remarkable for the deep interest of the 
plot and touching beauty of its well-told in- 
cidents; some of our newspaper editors, in- 
deed, pronounce it ' Vie hest story ever pub- 
lished in a newspaper.' This is certainly 
high praise, and from our knowledge of Mrs. 
Lee Hentz's ability, as an accomplished 
writer, we have no doubt the praise is well 
merited." — American Courier. 

Complete in One Volume. Price 50 cents. 


JAMES 11. 


" The period during the reigns of Charles 
II. and James II. is one of the most interest- 
ing in English history. Nell Gwynne, first 
a poor actress, and again as the king's mis- 
tress, and possessing more than a queen's 
influence, is the prominent character. The 
various characters are well drawn, and the 
construction of the tale is thoroughly art- 
istic. The scenes shift continually, and the 
interest of the reader is well sustained to the 
»,lose." — Evening BulMin. 

"This is an historical romance of a bril- 
liant period of English anna)s. and its author 
lias caught the spirit of the times, and worked 
up his materials with no common degree of 
skill. The book will be found exceedingly 
interesting." — Southern Literary Gazette, 


By the Author of "The Scourge of the 

"It will prove deeply interesting to those 
fond of maritime stories, and abounds in re- 
lations of daring deeds and gallant adven- 
tures." — Baltimore American. 

' This is a brilliant story of the sea, by the 
author of that very popular work, 'The 
Scourge of the Ocean,' who did not livv 
however, to complete the present tine. Th, 
task was performed for the publisher by th 
same able hand that completed ' Valerie 
the work left unfinished by Capt. Marryat 
The reader will find 'The Sea-King' a mos 
deeply interesting and absorbing storj 
abounding with incident and character, ance 
exhibiting much dramatic power." — Southei'n 
Literary Gazette.